Schizophrenia: the Disorder of Kings.
Jun 27, 2015 12:39:55 GMT -5
Terry Roberts, Night Rider, and 5 more like this
Post by David Sanchez on Jun 27, 2015 12:39:55 GMT -5
I: Mother Knows Best
[48:12 until Blast]
[48:12 until Blast]
“It could have been worse David, at least it wasn’t as bad as you thought, I mean, with the lifestyle and all I was half-expecting your legs to snap the minute you hit the ropes, you can‘t expect six days of clean living and exercise to cancel out four years of substance abuse and fatherhood. Up until the end you held your own”
“I guess. It’s just fucking disappointing sweetie. I mean, I can take a loss but losing to a small package is like losing to a dyslexic kid at a spelling bee, and what the.. Wait. Shit, what time is it?”
The scene opens up to a lounge of sorts, thick mahogany built-in units and bookcases are arranged against a chocolate wallpaper scheme. The smell of cigarette smoke and woman’s perfume fills the room and entangles together into a pungent aroma of superiority, this could have been a high-class bordello if not for the various photographs showing David and Samantha’s wedding day, baby pictures of their son Kayden and vintage musical memorabilia. A cat scratches it’s neck on the arm of a leather couch in the center of the room, it’s belled collar chiming each time the claw brushes past. Samantha’s arm is outstretched, her emerald green eyes staring at a watch on her delicate wrist, the black strap bringing further contrast to how pale she was in comparison to her husband. They sat so close together that one would be forgiven for thinking them newlyweds.
“Shit, eight fifteen. That Hank guy is going to be here any minute to interview you. I better go make sure Kayden is asleep.”
As soon as Sam has left the room a dull chime is heard; the doorbell, or by the sounds of it some sort of gong manipulated to act as such. They always had taken pleasure in being different, unique tastes for unique people. David rises from his metaphorical throne, allowing the camera to take in his figure. Tall, yet by no means grand for his profession. Muscular but again, not to the point of Herculean stature. He sways a little upon this ascension, clearly not willing to give up on all of his vices quite at once. This made obvious by the bottle of fifteen year old Glenrothes malt whiskey on a marble topped table in front of where he had been sitting. That, and the cigarette he extinguishes in a glass ashtray adjacent to the alcohol as he leaves to answer the door.
“Hi there, Hank Brown. Pleasure to meet you Mr Sanchez. I’m here to conduct…”
“I know who you are Hank, skip the pleasantries and formalities please, I honestly don‘t care. Come in, straight down the hall turn into your second right and park yourself in the armchair”
As Hank, somewhat offended by this relative unknown’s lack of manners shuffles past David and down the hall out of view the door slams and locks are seen to be bolted. The sound of locks clicking alarms the interviewer slightly as he identifies his pre-allocated seat and begins to prepare his questions, after-all very little was known about the man he had been sent to interview other than that he had suffered from addictions. Paranoia, he thought, composing himself as Sanchez walks back into the lounge and sits back in the couch, conveniently placed so that it faces his house guest directly, being sure to leave enough space for his wife to regain comfort upon her return. David was dressed in a rather sharp pair of black trousers, black shoes and a tight-fitting, white V-neck T-shirt. A very formal attire for house wear Hank thought, at least until the trousers crept up a little as Sanchez sat down, showing the slightest glimpse of what appeared to be rainbow dyed socks. It was all he could do not to giggle as this caught his attention, instead though, thinking that perhaps this was not the best first impression to make. He continued to shuffle with paperwork as the self-proclaimed Last True King of Wrestling poured a generous helping of scotch into a glass and gestured with his hand that now was the time to begin asking his questions.
“First of all David, I think it’s important that I officially welcome you to the company, so on behalf of all the staff here in the WCF, I say welcome and wish you the best of luck.”
Hank offers a smile in David’s direction, a smile which is returned by more of a sarcastic grin, bearing no teeth. The proprietor of this lounge seems somewhat unamused as he takes a large swig from his glass, lights a cigarette and speaks in a soft tone, as if trying to avoid being overheard by someone.
“Listen to me you walking microphone stand, I’m assuming you didn’t make the journey out here to drop off a hypothetical fruit basket and some super-gay sentiments. Your boss already welcomed me, the day I signed my contract, go figure huh? Now, can we cut to chase please. I was lead to believe you would be asking some questions, not enjoying the luxury of fifteen minutes in a house with air conditioning.”
Hank’s expression turns sour upon this verbal assault, he was offended already and had been in Chez’ Sanchez for a mere minute and a half. Thoughts of quite how painful the next thirteen and a half minutes were going to be if this man’s manners do not improve plagued Hank’s mind as his attention was momentarily drawn away from contemplating asking for a glass of Scotch himself to numb the discomfort by the entrance of Samantha. Sho seemed to glide across the tiled floor and land comfortably next to her husband, at least this was the illusion caused by her long, flowing evening dress which seemed to be made of black silk. She did not so much as look at him initially, not before giving a slight nod to her spouse as if to indicate everything was in place. A gesture David returned with a genuine smile, placing his right hand on her knee as she turns to Hank finally and somehow manages to sigh her disapproval of this intrusion and also deliver a grin, or a grin of sorts at least, one that might have been found upon a serpent, or perhaps another reptile.
“Hello Mrs Sanchez, Hank Br…”
“She doesn’t care either friend, just do your job. It‘s an interview not a sales pitch, we don‘t need to like each other. Unless.. Do you happen to moonlight as a solar panel salesman?”
“Umm... No”
“Rhetorical question Hank, when you are ready I‘d like to make this as quick as possible”
Noticing the new signing growing impatient Hank clears his throat, not before noticing something. The layout of the room, the intimidating dress code, expensive alcohol and two-facing-one paradigm shift. A commonly used technique, normally by the interviewer to assert dominance over their guest. Loosening the collar on his shirt he begins to speak, essentially abandoning his initial niceties and diving straight to the point after succumbing to the fact that there was nothing he could do to perhaps relax the atmosphere.
“Okay, so David. Last week was your debut on Slam. You were part of a six-man tag team contest, an unsuccessful venture for yourself that ultimately resulted in you losing your debut match. What I have to ask is: in the wake of this loss how do you plan to go forward in the company?”
“First of all, let me get one thing straight here Hank. I may have been pinned in that ridiculous contest but any outcome in that match where I didn’t suffer a massive coronary was a bonus to me. Adam Blake was lucky on the night but luck is a fickle bitch. Talent is not. I might have a bit of ring rust but after four years I didn’t expect to win, I aimed to survive and I did so. I’ll provide you with a little context for that statement shall I? Consider if you will a hammer and a nail. Does the hammer waste it’s time on the opinions of nails? No, the hammer drives the nail downwards and draws itself back to hit the next nail. I can see that you are still perplexed Hank, in this metaphor; I’m the fucking hammer.”
Noticing a frustration building in her husband, the woman formerly known as Lady Knives scowls at Hank, a genuine human emotion gracing her face for the first time. David on the other hand smiles slightly, he never was very good at displaying authentic feeling. The room lurks in silence for a few seconds, the only sound is David’s glass clinking back against the marble table as he empties it’s contents into his mouth and licks his lips, letting the warmth of the scotch wash away the bitterness of losing his debut match.
“Until recently David, it’s no secret that you’ve been dealing with some trouble around addiction. Could you tell us a little bit about that?”
“Do you want to know if he’ll suck your cock for rock?”
“No I just..”
“My wife has a sinister sense of humor Hank, a man would do well to remember this and perhaps take things with a pinch of salt in future.”
Relief pours over hank, this was becoming seriously uncomfortable for him, he had no indication when these people were joking and when they were being sincere. They stared at him as though they were studying a new species; the rare and illustrious Hank-odile, Hank-billed platypus, the Hank-osaur. His thoughts shift back to the matter at hand as the perpetrator of his distress continues to speak, laughing a little nervously at first, the topic at hand still a little fresh for him to make too much of a joke out of.
“What can I say here, the majority of my story has already been shown on E! In my own words I’d simply just have to cover the basics. I left a company named Real International Wrestling in 2011, retired at the age of twenty-six to spend time with my family. Sam begged me not to, she knew me better than I knew myself. To cut a long story short; Kayden was born and we had eighteen months of playing happy families before the itch kicked in. It turns out that Samantha’s fears were realized, I was left unfulfilled, rich and dead inside. Without the distraction of wrestling, training and the heat of the crowd I turned to narcotics. Prescription at first; Tramadol, Diazepam and Codeine. I became obsessed with feeling nothing and for six months I mixed this cocktail of drugs with whatever alcohol I fancied on that day. I spent my time in the study down the hall watching my old tapes and listening to Creedence Clearwater until I blacked out on the couch. The next two years were spent under the influence of Heroine, Cocaine, and the odd hallucinogenic so I’m afraid Sam will have to talk you through these years, I have trouble determining what was real from what was a lucid thought."
“I don’t want to bore you with a play-by-play run down of every fucked up thing he’s done so let me keep it brief. At the start of the year I caught him trying to pawn the silver flatware for money for cocaine. Now this is something that wouldn’t be too big of a deal to your average junkie. Except for the fact that between our combined wrestling royalties, my fashion retail and David’s various books and television appearances, we were in no need of money. He could have built a cocaine igloo had the thought crossed his mind. The original idea for his retirement was so that baby Kay wouldn’t grow up without a father as David had, but the reality was that this situation has become the preferred option. Better the devil you know, at least that devil is less likely to leave used syringes in the play-fort outside. So here we are, thirteen days into being drug-free. Unless your one of those pussies who considers alcohol, coffee, anti-psychotics and nicotine a drug?”
“Well, technically…”
“Does that opinion come with a vagina, or do you simply tuck and tape?”
Somewhat taken aback to hear this ugly language coming from such a beautiful entity it is all Hank can do to simply fumble with his paperwork, clearly skipping past a few pages of pre-prepared questions. David smiles at his wife, passion filling his lifeless, blue eyes as he strokes a scarred right hand through her jet black hair. An action which in turn earns him a cheeky smile as Samantha crosses her legs in a slow and seemingly sexual manner. They appear to be getting off on making Hank as uncomfortable as possible.
“We’re running out of time here David so to conclude this interview, on Sunday you’ll be opening Blast in New Jersey by competing in a triple threat match with Abaddon and Petrov. These two opponents are also looking to put their names on the map respectively and it promises to be an interesting contest, if only for the caliber of ego in this match. How do you feel heading into Blast?”
“I don’t really like New Jersey, it’s just like a poor man’s New York, if I waned to slum it, I’d take a drive into Costa Mesa. The Sopranos was a good show though, I‘m a huge Steve Buscemi fan, wish they kept him alive in it a bit longer. Boardwalk Empire though, that…”
“I meant any thoughts about the match David, not the State.”
“I know what you meant Hank.”
Feeling now that his impatience and eagerness to get out of this new form of hell was perhaps now offending his host Hank rises from his chair and extends his hand towards David, looking for a handshake to conclude the interview. An action which David shrugs off as his wife snarls something.
“I think you should leave now.”
“Mother knows best, Hank”
Neither David nor Samantha leave their seat as Hank shuffles from the lounge, through the archway and down the hall to the front door. A final act of poor manners, the large oak frame creaks open and slams softly as Hank disappears from view. The house is quiet for a moment, leaving the lovebirds staring affectionately at one another for a few moments until they hear a car engine grunt into life outside and speed back down the driveway, making as hasty of an exit as possible.
“Well, what do you think?”
Sam lays her legs across David’s lap as she asks the question. Both husband and wife are now laughing audibly upon their guest’s departure. Suggesting that the apparent offense caused moments ago had been a simple ploy to remove this man from their home. A proverbial fly-swatter if you will.
“I think you could probably get him to make us dinner next time beautiful.”
“I forgot how fun this was.”
II: Of Monsters and Martyrs
~ Parenting 101
[42:34 Until Blast]
[42:34 Until Blast]
A high pitched sobbing is heard from somewhere close to the camera’s point of origin, yet nothing can be seen. Darkness, and endless darkness for as far as the eye can see. Nothing but a child’s crying is heard. Until suddenly a light clicks on, exposing a hallway of grand length with a similar décor to the one visited by Hank Brown earlier this evening., six hours ago to be as precise as one could gather at this late hour. It would appear that this hallway was another wing of the good house Sanchez. The wallpaper was the same, the vintage memorabilia from forgotten film and music relics at least held true to the same theme, the solid oak floors, polished mahogany units and the general, eerily clean vibe hinted at this but it was the emergence of David himself from behind a door that seals the deal.
“Daaaaaaaaaad!..”
The cries from before now served a purpose. Although the word was elongated and said through frantic, panicked breath, it was clearly a call of distress from father to son. David rubs at his eyes as he shuts the bedroom door from which he had came, allowing Samantha the rare luxury of a decent night’s sleep. It was only fair he thought to himself as he stifled a yawn, after-all she would be dealing with the next few restless nights.
“I’m Coming Kayden.”
Taking a few steps down the hall, he wobbles slightly on tired legs before opening the next door in the corridor and entering his son’s bedroom. Perhaps three hours sleep was a little less than the recommended dosage after consuming seven generous glasses of malt whiskey he thought, rather worried that he may still be a touch too intoxicated to console his four year-old son.
“What is it son? Daddy’s here.”
He clicks the light on, fighting the urge to curse loudly as his bare foot presses down onto a Lego block. Allowing his eyes a brief second to adjust to change in illumination he takes a swift inventory of the remaining floor space between the doorway and his son’s bed. Dodging several scattered toys, he navigates the jungle of childish belongings and sits upon Kayden’s single bed, cradling his sobbing son’s head against his chest and making hushing noises as the bed creaks and struggles to hold a muscular adult’s weight.
“I.. I.. Had a n-nightmare”
David uses his left hand to softly brush the tears from under the eyes of his only child and begins to speak again in a calming tone. Allowing Kayden to regulate his breathing slightly as he nuzzles his innocent face into his father’s scarred chest.
“It’s okay son, I’m here now. Tell me all about it.”
“Th-the monster, he said he was g-going to kill you w-with a knife if you didn’t help him hurt a m-man.”
A smile is handed down from father to son, a sympathetic signal that everything is going to be okay. Expelling another yawn David takes a few moments to take in how proud he is to have fathered such a normal child, especially neither he, nor Samantha were particularly well adjusted people. There he was though; the sum of their good parts with none of the bad. A little bundle of black-haired wonder and innocence. He seen his own piercing blue eyes gazing back at him every time he laid focus on Kayden. It was all he could do not to chuckle slightly at this obvious insinuation towards the words he had first heard uttered by Abaddon a few days ago. Sometimes he forgot that characters in wrestling were scary to children, fuck, the guy was over seven foot tall and outweighed him by almost an entire second David Sanchez. Even he was not quite sure how he would conquer such a behemoth yet. This was irrelevant at the moment though, he turned on his most confident expression and stared back at his son, smiling as he found the correct way to word what he needed to say.
“Monster’s aren’t real son, remember.”
“But..”
“But nothing sweet child, he’s just a man like I am and you will be one day. Except there’s a difference between us. You see; your daddy is a king, and that makes you Prince Kayden.”
David drifts off in his head a little at the thought of this. He always had high hopes for his son. Kayden of house Sanchez, Prince of County Orange. At least the drugs hadn’t completely raped him of imagination, although a mental note was made to himself that perhaps he shouldn’t have binge watched Game of Thrones. Noticing that his son was expecting more than fairytales of royalty he continued on, attempting to avoid this topic.
“Don’t worry about me son, I’m not afraid of the big bad man. The only thing that scares me; is me. I used to worry that I’d lose you and your mother. Compared to that thought, I’d fight men like Abaddon everyday for the rest of my life. The silly man just thinks it’s still Halloween Kay. Remember we dressed up as monsters last year too?”
“Yeah… I was a where’s-wolf?”
“A werewolf son, but close enough.”
A smile forms on Kayden’s face as his mind drifts back to last Halloween, and all the candy he received for dressing up. David takes note of this and slips his son’s head from his chest region and back onto the pillow, kissing him on the forehead as he kneels at the bedside and concludes his point.
“Sometimes people like to pretend they are monsters, sometimes it’s to get free candy, other times it’s to get a payday. All you need to remember is that monsters are not real son.”
At this conclusion David ruffles his son’s hair and dodges the proverbial minefield of toys back towards the door. Just before he exit’s the room he turns to his son, his fingertips grazing the light-switch without ever applying any pressure. Thinking about it for a second he removes his hand and smiles at his now-settled son.
“Goodnight dad”
“Goodnight sweet prince, sleep well.”
III: Mirror Mirror on the Wall
[07:12 Until Blast]
[07:12 Until Blast]
“You can do this”
“Just take something to calm your nerves man, you know it will help. Just a Tramadol or two, maybe a crush a couple of Diazepam for a sniff”
“I don’t need them anymore, I don’t need you either voice”
“You need them David, you need them all. It’s your first pay per-view in years. I can feel your heart racing. Your hands are clammy and you cant stand still”
“I’m not doing it man, fuck off”
“I can’t fuck off”
“Why not?”
“You know why not David”
“Oh yeah.. Well fucking shut up then, I need to think”
The scene opens to David Sanchez standing at the foot of a bed. The sun creeps through slats in blinds, casting a natural light across the entirety of a dingy hotel room. “Property of 140th Bank Hotel, New Jersey” An anti-theft label plastered on the television, headboard and wall mirror helps us identify the location with the greatest of ease. Alone he stands un-blinking, gazing at himself in the mirror as he argues with himself, allowing both sides to be heard. When he speaks as himself his words are sharp, well-pronounced and present a positive vibe. The other voice though is slurred, angry and suggestive.
“Look at how far I’ve come, fourteen days. I haven’t been sober for fourteen days since I was fucking fourteen”
“Look at what’s ahead of you tonight though, a giant demon and a bad-ass with a worse temper”
“Are you doubting us, me… Whatever?”
“I always doubt you when you try to do things without me David, face it. You need me.”
Visibly pleading with himself, the Last True King of Wrestling drops to his knees in front of the mirror, running his hands across the reflection of his face. The drugs had not wrecked his imagination over the years, no. What they had done instead was cause him to develop a second personality when he was alone, in truth now he needed Sam more than ever but she was not so inclined to get back on the road as he was, this was after-all no place to be raising a child. He pulls himself to his feet and throws a punch, smashing the mirror and causing lacerations to his fist. At least he lunged as a southpaw, the right hand was scarred enough already he thought as he begins to dam the bleeding with his lips, tasting the familiar crimson secretion.
“Peace at last.”
This is a short-lived, momentary relief. Like plugging the hole in a sinking ship with chewing gum.
“When will you learn David?”
Frustration plagues the only man in the room, why could things never work like they did in the movies? Why was he burdened to carry this alter-ego? This previous incarnation of himself. Giving up; he pleads, looking now only at the floor. Shards of his own smashed face looking back at him he tries to reason.
“Two anti-psychotics, I’ll crush one of them and get a bottle of Glenmorangie on the way to the arena”
“…and what do you want from me David?”
“I want you to remind these two bastards who the fuck I am”
“Deal”
Defeated, David begins to bandage his hand with wrist-tape from his suitcase and sighs heavily as he zips it back up. Departing he room and making his way to the arena, with a few carefully negotiated stops now to make on route.