Post by Tom Frost on Jan 28, 2017 14:52:49 GMT -5
“Departing a fine dream can leave you full of longing and sorrow, wishing for nothing more than to have never been stirred awake from it. Adversely, finding your way out of a nightmare to realize your mind was only playing a cruel trick on you can be nothing less than orgasmic.
Despite waking from the first nightmare I’d had in god knows how long, though, I felt more like I’d been run over by a freight train.
I was lying in a heap on the bathroom floor, still mostly drunk from the previous night’s shenanigans. The small percentage of my brain that had wisely sobered up was attempting to clue me in to the fact that I was soaking wet, though it took far longer than it should’ve for me to realize it. Upon finally doing so, and in my infinite brilliance, I could only assume that I’d taken a snooze in the tub - fully clothed, no less - and had somehow flailed this way and that until I landed like a sopping towel on the floor.
Sitting up and peering into the porcelain basin, however, revealed not a single drop of water. And when my old basset hound Miss Daisy Mae bumbled over and started slapping my face with her warm tongue, I realized it wasn’t bathwater but the salty sweat covering my body from head to toe that she was so eager to get a taste of.”
Tom: Come on girl, leave me be.
Miss Daisy Mae: Schleerp...schleerp…
Tom: Hey, come on now.
“I finally managed to quell the beast’s vicious onslaught of sloppy kisses with some fierce belly rubbing that had her craning her neck and kicking her hind leg at the air in rapid succession. In the brief respite, I found my feet - but just barely - and I stumbled off toward the kitchen to feed my lady some kibble.”
Tom: Go on, fine dining this morning.
“As she scarfed down her breakfast, I found my way to the backyard through the kitchen door. The bitter morning air of winter in Darling, WA was made even more so by the sweat that still clung to my skin. I took out an Old Gold from my jacket and lit it, inhaling deep and exhaling a cloud of smoke as I pondered my dream and spoke aloud.”
Tom: Rumpke...you boozed up bastard. You foolhardy, no good son of a bitch. It’s one thing that you’ve been on my mind every day since you introduced your fists to my face before my match on Slam a few weeks back, but the least you could do is stay the hell out of my dreams. As far as I’m concerned, those are reserved for my sweet Anna Marie, and the simple fact that you’ve cost me a night with her almost pisses me off as much as you trying to soften me up for my match that night on Slam.
Almost…
I may be a fool, Rumpke, but I’m no idiot. I don’t think you are either, but in case I’ve misjudged you entirely, allow me to specify that I’m well aware it’s not your choice what I dream of and what I don’t. That doesn’t mean I forgive you for breaking into my mind last night though. You want to know what I dreamt of? I dreamt you beat me this coming Sunday. That’s right, outlandish as it may seem, I dreamt you stood toe-to-toe with me and more, pummeling my ass even worse than you did when you caught me off guard backstage in Philly. I dreamt I was powerless against you - you, the almighty Drunken Brawler who I outsmarted, outlasted, and defeated in our respective debuts.
Luckily for me, and not so much for you, my dreams never come true.
If they did, I’d be living the good life with my sweet Anna Marie and watching our children - beautiful thanks only to their mother - grow up full of life and love. I’d be out touring the world with the boys playing gigs in front of thousands at Madison Square Garden and the Royal Albert Hall and the Tokyo Dome instead of playing to a few dozen of Darling’s finest every Thursday at Arnie’s Lounge.
But that’s not the case. For all I know, it never will be. And the same can be said of you dragging my broken carcass around that bar room at Rise Up this Sunday - or any other day - making a show of how old Tom Frost is but a mere plaything for the great Drunk.
A dream, Rumpke, that’s all it was. That’s all it’s ever gonna be.
And don’t mangle all this nightmare nonsense up in that mind of yours. Don’t twist it into some delusional narrative of personal glory or spin it into golden visions. You’re not Rumplestiltskin; you’re Rumpke, and the only things the two of you share are a trollish appearance and a knack for losing in the end. You may want vengeance against me for handing you your first loss in as many matches just as I want vengeance for your attack on me before I squared off with Ryan O’Callaghan. But when it comes down to it, I want it more than you, and my desire - among other things, which I’ll get to, don’t worry - will leave your mind and body shattered and utterly devastated...if only for that fateful night.
Fear inside a dream is one thing, Rumpke, but this Sunday at Rise Up, the nightmare that is squaring off with old Tom Frost is going to be all too real.
“From inside, I heard the clicking of my hounddog’s nails against the tile grow nearer before she nudged the screen door open with her muzzle. I smoked another cigarette as I watched her do her business in the yard. She trotted away from the steaming pile when she was finished, her tail wagging along with the layer of fat that draped down from the whole of her. I smothered her with praise she didn’t need; that squat, four-legged angel knew damn well she was a good girl without me having to remind her.
An old, dirty boot leaning up against the house caught her eye, and she dashed over to it and took it in her mouth before bringing it over to me. ‘Some toy,’ I chuckled to myself, engaging her in a game of tug-of-war before finally prying her mouth open and tossing the boot into the yard. She took off after it, howling with excitement as I thought of my old man.
It was his boot, you see, and it reminded me that I hadn’t been to see him at St. Evan’s Nursing Home in a couple weeks. I finished my cigarette and flicked it away before entering the house. My hound followed suit, and I once more had to pry the dirty old boot from her jaws before tossing it back outside, careful to close the door before she could chase after it.
Breakfast and a cup of steaming black was first on the agenda though, and I spiced it up with a splash or two of Wild Turkey before I fried up some eggs and bacon. Being the terrible owner I am, I let Miss Daisy Mae clean my plate when I was finished, and I threw on some fresh clothes that didn’t stink of dried sweat and stale cigarette smoke before I grabbed my keys and headed out the door.
It was almost noon by the time I arrived at the nursing home, and my Olds’ ‘55 gurgled and groaned as I pulled into a parking space in front. I had hardly stepped out when I was greeted by Mrs. Morris, the head nurse. She bared her teeth in a wide smile and called out, holding the front door open and looking me up and down as I approached.”
Mrs. Morris: My, my...look at that handsome fellow. Come to take me away, have you, Tom Frost?
Tom: Ah…’fraid not, Delilah. Maybe if it weren’t for that ring on your finger...
Mrs. Morris: Oh, Sugar, what’s he got to know for?!
“A woman her size wasn’t strong for nothing, and she gave me a bearhug, pressing her massive breasts against my chest and squeezing for a few seconds too long before letting me go.”
Tom: How is he?
Mrs. Morris: He’s having a good day. Ate all his breakfast, called the nurses by name. Hasn’t even messed himself yet. Yeah, now that’s a good day.
Tom: Still plenty of light left.
Mrs. Morris: Don’t I know it. You know where he is. If you need any help, just holler.
Tom: I can handle him. Thanks Delilah.
“I started off down the hall, turning when she called out again.”
Mrs. Morris: Saw you on the TV by the way. Finally putting that fight in ya to get use, huh?
Tom: Yes indeed.
Mrs. Morris: I hope they’re paying you a decent wage to go out there and put your body on the line like that.
Tom: I can’t complain.
Mrs. Morris: Neither can I. You’re looking good out there...no shirt and all.
“I saw her creepy comment coming a mile away. Mrs. Morris had never been anything if not a lustful woman.”
Mrs. Morris: Fighting good too. What are you, 10-0?
Tom: 3-0...getting there though.
Mrs. Morris: I got a whole new reason to look forward to Sundays thanks to you and that chiseled body. Keep it up. And keeping showing off that skin.
Tom: Alright, will do.
“She muttered something about me being her husband one day to a nurse nearby as I turned the corner, lucky to be out of earshot of whatever come out of her mouth next.
Passing through an open doorway, I spotted my old man sitting on the edge of a chair in the activity room, a video game controller in his hand and another patient tapping him on the shoulder and talking in his ear.”
Patient: Billy, you finished yet? Billy, you -
Billy Frost: Does it look like I’m finished?! I just entered the temple! Now scram before I -
Tom: Ease up, Pops.
“The old man had been losing his mind for years. He knew my face, but it was rare that he called me by the name he’d given me. That day was no exception.”
Billy Frost: Jimmy! Tell this low life to leave me be! I just started the Water Temple and it’s gonna be a while.
Tom: Tom, Dad. It’s Tom. Remember?
Billy Frost: Yeah, yeah. That’s what I said. You don’t have to remind me. Your mother made sure to at lunch yesterday
“She’d been dead for twelve years.”
Tom: Did she now?
Billy Frost: You were right there! Sometimes, kid. Sometimes I think you’re losing your damn - SHIT!
“I reached his side in time to see him fall into a pit of what must have been lava.”
Billy Frost: DAMN WATER TEMPLE!
Patient: Hey Billy, you done yet?
Billy Frost: NO YOU SON OF A BITCH! NOW GET OUTTA HERE OR I’LL WHOMP YA!
“The old man stood up and cocked his arm back, causing the poor patient to flinch and withdraw. He eyed him angrily as the man sulked away and sat down at a table, glancing over at us like a frightened animal.”
Tom: Leave him be. And pause the game.
Billy Frost: But I’m just getting started on the Water Temple!
Tom: I don’t think that’s the -
“But explaining that water wasn’t orange and glowing was sure to be lost on my old man, and I dropped it. I snatched the controller and pressed the red button in the middle labeled ‘start’. The little elf man on screen was frozen amidst the fire all around him now, and my father turned his attention to me.”
Billy Frost: Who were those people in my room last night?
Tom: Probably your nurses..
Billy Frost: No, no, it was after they left. We had a big banquet in honor of my promotion at the mill. Dirk was there, and so was Mikey and Phil. But who were the other ones? I didn’t know ‘em.
Tom: I don’t know, Pops. Your friends, I imagine. Sounds like they all turned out for the party.
Billy Frost: Yeah, yeah. Sounds like they did.
Tom: How you feeling?
Billy Frost: Good. Sliced my finger off pushing some timber through the saw though.
“He held up his right hand and wiggled his nub of a pinky at me. It’d been that way all my life.
We sat and talked for a while.
We talked about how Peggy Jennings was after his heart, but he was already taking my mother to the high school dance.
We talked about the coon dog he’d had as a boy and how the dog gotten in a fight with a squirrel yesterday and lost.
We talked about his recent promotion at the mill some half a century ago.
We talked about my little brother Harry and how he hadn’t been around to visit him lately, but in truth he’d gone sailing and got himself lost at sea years before. No one had seen him since.
After nearly an hour of stories set in the past and warped by age and the onset of alzheimer's and dementia, I had had about all I could take for one day. It was difficult to see my old man this way. Always was. In his prime, he was the sharpest man I’d even known, and seeing him withered away in his present state always left a hollow spot in my mind where any optimism for the future once resided.
I changed the subject back to his video game, and he drew his attention to it as I reached out and hugged him. He hugged me back.”
Billy Frost: I love you, Tom.
Tom: Love you too, Pops. I’ll see you soon. Take it easy on these nurses, ok? Same goes for that friend of yours.
“He shot a glare over at the patient who sat at the nearby table, still eyeing my father and the video game he so longed to play. Standing up, I turned to leave before the old man grabbed my arm.
He may have been pushing 80 years old, but six decades of working at the timber mill had left him strong as an ox. And though he’d lost nearly all of his mind, a piece of him still existed in the present. I looked down at him, and his eyes glistened as he spoke lucidly.”
Billy Frost: I’m proud of you, son. I watch you every week. Your old man’s proud of you, you hear me?
Tom: I hear you, Pops.
“His lip quivered, and a light seemed to fade from his eyes as a look of confusion came over him.”
Billy Frost: My legs are leaking again.
Tom: Ah...those damn legs.
“I called for a nurse as a giant wet spot near the groin area of his sweatpants presented itself. She stood him up, and before escorting him off to the bathroom, she turned to me.”
Nurse: Still refuses to wear adult diapers. Stubborn as a mule, your Father.
Tom: Sorry about that.
“But she smiled and shrugged before escorting him to the bathroom, and I made for the exit. Turning to look over my shoulder, I caught one last glimpse of him. He was looking my way, and he left me with a wink before turning toward the video game set up and hollering at the patient to back off, reminding him of the Water Temple he was yet to explore.
I strode back down the hallway and turned toward the exit to find Mrs. Morris standing by the front desk.”
Mrs. Morris: How was he?
Tom: He...well, he was his usual self. Didn’t know where or when he was except for about ten seconds. His legs were leaking again…
Mrs. Morris: Ha! I swear, that man will never admit to wetting himself. Well don’t worry, Tom, he’s in good hands. We’ll take care of him.
Tom: I don’t doubt it for a second. ‘Til next time, Delilah.
Mrs. Morris: Bye Sugar. And good luck this Sunday! I’m gonna have my eye on you!
Tom: I’ll make you proud.
Mrs. Morris: You’ll make me weak in the knees is what!
“I nodded and made for the door, hoping to be outside before her raunchiness rose to an unbearable level. Successful, I hopped in my ‘Olds ‘55, which roared as I brought it back to life.
The radio was playing nothing but shit, and after a few passes through each channel I shut it off in favor of silence. But as I sucked on an Old Gold, my thoughts turned from my old man back to the matter at hand, that being Rumpke, and the silence didn’t last long before my gruff voice broke it.”
Tom: I hope you’re not as forgetful as my old man, Rumpke. I hope you remember exactly what I did to you in our debut match. You may have done the majority of the eliminating, but in the end you couldn’t outlast me, which of course is the entire purpose of a battle royal. But this time’s gonna be different. This Sunday, you’re not going to be able to simply throw me over the top rope and pick up an easy win. No...not only are you going to have to outlast me, but you’re going to have to pin my shoulders for three to do it. In each of my one-one-one matches thus far, both men have failed...and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let you be the first to succeed.
Speaking of success, that’s exactly what you managed to capture a bit of the week after we debuted. And congratulations, you pinned...ah, Captain Rump. And you did so before the likes of Menaki and Udy were able to.
Let me repeat that:
You defeated Captain Rump, Menaki, and Udy.
Please allow me to rescind my congrats.
I’m always one in favor looking on the bright side. Sure, it doesn’t always work out, and lord knows I’ve seen my share of dark days. But if you think getting a win over those three gives you anything remotely close to bragging rights, think again. I pinned Menaki with ease. I beat the shit out of that great redwood and exposed him for the dandelion he is. I pinned Ryan O’Callaghan, a man who once showed promise in this business, though after falling to me, who knows what his future holds. I don’t think I need to remind you that I took a beating by your hand before I went out there and got the job done. And if your presence outside the ring can’t keep me down inside it, how could you possibly manage to keep me down when we’re going at it for real?
Maybe I’ve got it all wrong though. Maybe you’re not still riding high after picking up your first victory over a group of schlubs who likely won’t be around come spring. Maybe you were so livid about having to square off against those three that you decided to seek me out and release some of that anger on me backstage on Slam. Maybe so, maybe not. Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that you fucked with the wrong man, and because of it I’m gunning for you with all I’ve got.
“Turning the window lever, I flicked my cigarette out. In my contained rage, though, I hadn’t noticed the car driving alongside me. For whatever reason, its windows were rolled down, and I watched as the butt fell into the lap of a small child. She picked it up and examined it, a look of confusion written on her face before she turned my way. ‘Don’t smoke!’ I shouted, and she smiled as her mother turned around to check on her. Luckily, a line of traffic slowed them down before I could get a scolding, and I cruised on by them as I rolled my window back up.”
Tom: Funny thing about all this, Rumpke - about this beef we’ve got going - is that at the outset, you didn’t make a single mention of me.
In this business, I learned early on that studying your opponents is the best way to get an edge on them. And when I watched your promo for our debut, not once did my name come up. Not once. You completely overlooked me. That was your first mistake, and you’ve done nothing but fuck up since.
You’re dealing with one of the fiercest wrestlers - or brawlers, if we’re speaking your language - in the WCF. You’re dealing with old Tom Frost, dammit, and I’m not someone you can overlook and walk away having gotten the best of me.
There are two things I excel at in this world, Rumpke: making music, and making grown men beg for mercy. I can play the keys like Mozart, had he been raised by wolves in the wild. I can sing a tune like Sinatra had he eaten rusty nails and smoked rubber tires every day of his life. I can make a guitar hum and sing like an angel, or I can make it cry and scream like the devil himself. This Sunday, though, you’re my instrument, and I’m gonna make you cry out in agony when I get my hands on you; I’m gonna make you scream and beg for death. I won’t oblige you. You’re leaving that bar room alive, albeit on a stretcher if I have my way. But when I unleash on you for those grueling minutes that drag on for what seems like a lifetime, you’ll wish you were pushing daisies.
“Up ahead was Rosie’s Diner, and my belly rumbled at the sight of the neon sign out front as if I were one of Pavlov’s dogs. My heart started to ache a bit too, because that’s where my sweet Anna Marie spent her days toiling away making coffee and pie, among other things. I almost stopped in, but when I didn’t see her car parked out back, I rolled on past and let out a sigh.
Last time I’d spoken with her, I was in the clink for a night having just taken out a man who resembled Rumpke. She wasn’t pleased, and I wanted more than anything to make amends; to show her I could change, so that one day she might reciprocate the love I had for her. But today wasn’t that day, and so I headed over to Lou’s for a drink and a burger.
Lou was about as happy to see me stroll through his doors as Anna Marie would have been at the diner. Fortunately, the only thing I had to convince him of was that I wouldn’t beat the daylights out of one his patrons.”
Lou: I don’t want any shit from you today, Tom.
Tom: I won’t give you any.
Lou: I got a business to run here, and what with you getting into it with my patrons every damn week, I’m losing out on it. No bullshit, you got it?
Tom: Got it, Lou. Now let me get a cheeseburger and onion rings. Hold the spit.
Lou: That all?
Tom: And a Wild Turkey, neat.
“I took a seat at the far end of the bar and lit up an Old Gold. Smoke began filling up my corner of the place as I scoped it out. It was empty aside from a couple teenagers who were probably skipping class to shoot some pool and an old man sitting at the other end of the bar. He looked up and met my gaze, then raised his glass. I nodded in kind.
Lou poured my drink and disappeared into the kitchen to make my order. My belly was throwing a fit by then, but my appetite was suppressed by my desire to pummel and pin Rumpke once and for all. I took a deep drag of my cigarette, and smoke billowed from my mouth as I spoke.”
Tom: Here we are, Rumpke. This Sunday, in a place more or less the same as this, you’ll finally get the comeuppance you’ve earned over these past few weeks.
The bossman was wise when he made the stipulation for our match at Rise Up. A bar room brawl, and which two men on the roster are more at home in the confines of a bar? None. In my three in-ring matches, I’ve found that I’m just as comfortable dishing out punishment between the ropes as I am sipping bourbon on a barstool. I can’t say the same for you, because although you’ve earned a victory in the squared circle, you’ve also known defeat...something I’m yet to be acquainted with.
But when we go at it amongst the booze, the bar stools, and the broken dreams, we’ll both be in familiar territory. To the unaccustomed observer, it may seem as though we’ll be on equal footing this Sunday. Anyone who’s seen me take care of business in the WCF thus far, though, knows better.
That includes you, Rumpke.
You’ve seen what I can do, and likewise I’ve seen what you can do. I won’t kid myself. You pose a challenge, and you’re a legitimate threat whenever you go toe-to-toe with another man. But the challenge you pose is one I’ve overcome time and again in countless bar fights, and the legitimacy of your threat pales in comparison to my own.
It’s no secret that you’ll do whatever it takes to win. And at Rise Up, you’ll have every opportunity to take advantage of your surroundings in hopes they’ll aid you in attaining the greatest victory of your career. There’s gonna be glass, chairs, and tables. There’ll be pool cues, toilets, and plenty of awkward angles to slam these old bones up against. The booze will spill from shattered glass just as the blood will spill from our battered bodies.
But no matter how many bottles you break over my skull - no matter how many bar stools you break over my back - there’ll be one breaking over you in its stead and then some. Because you see, there’s no cheating this Sunday. Everything’s fair game, and you’re devious, cheap-shotting nature won’t have any advantage over me. I’m going to blow through that bar room like a bull in a china shop, and when it’s finally time to pin your shoulders for three, it’s going to look like a goddamn bomb just went off. There will be nothing left intact...your foolish pride and misguided dreams of victory included.
“Throwing back my drink, I raised a finger to Lou and pointed it toward my glass when he looked over. He filled me up and told me my meal would be out shortly as I lit another cigarette. Contemplating Rumpke and Rise Up, I took a few drags and started again.”
Tom: Maybe I should be more careful with my words. After all, I’m dealing with a drug-addict here. To which drugs you’re addicted I can’t say, but it’s probably in my best interest if it’s not crack or PCP or meth. But even if you do get high and become some kind of sewer-surfing superhero before our match, it won’t bring you up to my level. Hell, I’m an addict to, but unlike you I stick to booze and cigarettes mostly. Occasionally though, I just can’t help but beat the shit out of someone who deserves it. And wouldn’t you know it, you deserve it more than anyone in recent memory.
Should I pity you and for your addictions? Should I feel any sympathy whatsoever for your drug-addled mind that’s been warped into thinking you’re destined to pin old Tom Frost this Sunday? God no. I have none whatsoever for you, and the fact that I don’t know you as a person doesn’t have anything to do with it. I may not know who your high school sweetheart was - poor gal - or what songs mommy used to sing you at night when she tucked you into bed, or what your deepest darkest secrets are. None of that matters. What I do know of you, though, is that you’ve got some mean fists, and they lash out like rattlesnakes in the brush.
But here I come, Rumpke, tramping all over that brush, dancing and stomping around, blowing my horn as loud as I can in an attempt to piss you off and lure you out into the open. I hear those rattlers shaking. I hear the hisses; feel the venom you spit onto my legs. It’s supposed to warn me. It’s supposed to scare me, but nothing about you scares me, Rumpke. Not a goddamn thing. Not your mind. Not your fists. Nothing.
You said I dodged a bullet in not being booked against you after I beat you the first time. The irony, of course, is that you haven’t shown your face since you attacked me backstage a week later. Well now I’m stepping right out in front of that bullet, and I’m wearing an impenetrable kevlar body suit. It’d take a machine gun just to bring me to my knees, and all you’ve got are your fists.
I’m hungry, Rumpke. I’m so goddamn hungry. But I need only bear the pangs for a few more days, because this Sunday at Rise Up, you’re being served up to me on a platter...and I’ve got one hell of an appetite for conquest.
“Snuffing my cigarette out in an ashtray, I looked up just in time to see Lou bringing my meal over. I thanked him as he set it down in front me, taking in the sweet smell of grease as my hunger reached a climax. I dug in, and when there was nothing left but spilled crumbs, I slapped a twenty on the bar and strode off toward the door.
‘One appetite quenched,’ I thought to myself.
‘One more to go.’”
Despite waking from the first nightmare I’d had in god knows how long, though, I felt more like I’d been run over by a freight train.
I was lying in a heap on the bathroom floor, still mostly drunk from the previous night’s shenanigans. The small percentage of my brain that had wisely sobered up was attempting to clue me in to the fact that I was soaking wet, though it took far longer than it should’ve for me to realize it. Upon finally doing so, and in my infinite brilliance, I could only assume that I’d taken a snooze in the tub - fully clothed, no less - and had somehow flailed this way and that until I landed like a sopping towel on the floor.
Sitting up and peering into the porcelain basin, however, revealed not a single drop of water. And when my old basset hound Miss Daisy Mae bumbled over and started slapping my face with her warm tongue, I realized it wasn’t bathwater but the salty sweat covering my body from head to toe that she was so eager to get a taste of.”
Tom: Come on girl, leave me be.
Miss Daisy Mae: Schleerp...schleerp…
Tom: Hey, come on now.
“I finally managed to quell the beast’s vicious onslaught of sloppy kisses with some fierce belly rubbing that had her craning her neck and kicking her hind leg at the air in rapid succession. In the brief respite, I found my feet - but just barely - and I stumbled off toward the kitchen to feed my lady some kibble.”
Tom: Go on, fine dining this morning.
“As she scarfed down her breakfast, I found my way to the backyard through the kitchen door. The bitter morning air of winter in Darling, WA was made even more so by the sweat that still clung to my skin. I took out an Old Gold from my jacket and lit it, inhaling deep and exhaling a cloud of smoke as I pondered my dream and spoke aloud.”
Tom: Rumpke...you boozed up bastard. You foolhardy, no good son of a bitch. It’s one thing that you’ve been on my mind every day since you introduced your fists to my face before my match on Slam a few weeks back, but the least you could do is stay the hell out of my dreams. As far as I’m concerned, those are reserved for my sweet Anna Marie, and the simple fact that you’ve cost me a night with her almost pisses me off as much as you trying to soften me up for my match that night on Slam.
Almost…
I may be a fool, Rumpke, but I’m no idiot. I don’t think you are either, but in case I’ve misjudged you entirely, allow me to specify that I’m well aware it’s not your choice what I dream of and what I don’t. That doesn’t mean I forgive you for breaking into my mind last night though. You want to know what I dreamt of? I dreamt you beat me this coming Sunday. That’s right, outlandish as it may seem, I dreamt you stood toe-to-toe with me and more, pummeling my ass even worse than you did when you caught me off guard backstage in Philly. I dreamt I was powerless against you - you, the almighty Drunken Brawler who I outsmarted, outlasted, and defeated in our respective debuts.
Luckily for me, and not so much for you, my dreams never come true.
If they did, I’d be living the good life with my sweet Anna Marie and watching our children - beautiful thanks only to their mother - grow up full of life and love. I’d be out touring the world with the boys playing gigs in front of thousands at Madison Square Garden and the Royal Albert Hall and the Tokyo Dome instead of playing to a few dozen of Darling’s finest every Thursday at Arnie’s Lounge.
But that’s not the case. For all I know, it never will be. And the same can be said of you dragging my broken carcass around that bar room at Rise Up this Sunday - or any other day - making a show of how old Tom Frost is but a mere plaything for the great Drunk.
A dream, Rumpke, that’s all it was. That’s all it’s ever gonna be.
And don’t mangle all this nightmare nonsense up in that mind of yours. Don’t twist it into some delusional narrative of personal glory or spin it into golden visions. You’re not Rumplestiltskin; you’re Rumpke, and the only things the two of you share are a trollish appearance and a knack for losing in the end. You may want vengeance against me for handing you your first loss in as many matches just as I want vengeance for your attack on me before I squared off with Ryan O’Callaghan. But when it comes down to it, I want it more than you, and my desire - among other things, which I’ll get to, don’t worry - will leave your mind and body shattered and utterly devastated...if only for that fateful night.
Fear inside a dream is one thing, Rumpke, but this Sunday at Rise Up, the nightmare that is squaring off with old Tom Frost is going to be all too real.
“From inside, I heard the clicking of my hounddog’s nails against the tile grow nearer before she nudged the screen door open with her muzzle. I smoked another cigarette as I watched her do her business in the yard. She trotted away from the steaming pile when she was finished, her tail wagging along with the layer of fat that draped down from the whole of her. I smothered her with praise she didn’t need; that squat, four-legged angel knew damn well she was a good girl without me having to remind her.
An old, dirty boot leaning up against the house caught her eye, and she dashed over to it and took it in her mouth before bringing it over to me. ‘Some toy,’ I chuckled to myself, engaging her in a game of tug-of-war before finally prying her mouth open and tossing the boot into the yard. She took off after it, howling with excitement as I thought of my old man.
It was his boot, you see, and it reminded me that I hadn’t been to see him at St. Evan’s Nursing Home in a couple weeks. I finished my cigarette and flicked it away before entering the house. My hound followed suit, and I once more had to pry the dirty old boot from her jaws before tossing it back outside, careful to close the door before she could chase after it.
Breakfast and a cup of steaming black was first on the agenda though, and I spiced it up with a splash or two of Wild Turkey before I fried up some eggs and bacon. Being the terrible owner I am, I let Miss Daisy Mae clean my plate when I was finished, and I threw on some fresh clothes that didn’t stink of dried sweat and stale cigarette smoke before I grabbed my keys and headed out the door.
It was almost noon by the time I arrived at the nursing home, and my Olds’ ‘55 gurgled and groaned as I pulled into a parking space in front. I had hardly stepped out when I was greeted by Mrs. Morris, the head nurse. She bared her teeth in a wide smile and called out, holding the front door open and looking me up and down as I approached.”
Mrs. Morris: My, my...look at that handsome fellow. Come to take me away, have you, Tom Frost?
Tom: Ah…’fraid not, Delilah. Maybe if it weren’t for that ring on your finger...
Mrs. Morris: Oh, Sugar, what’s he got to know for?!
“A woman her size wasn’t strong for nothing, and she gave me a bearhug, pressing her massive breasts against my chest and squeezing for a few seconds too long before letting me go.”
Tom: How is he?
Mrs. Morris: He’s having a good day. Ate all his breakfast, called the nurses by name. Hasn’t even messed himself yet. Yeah, now that’s a good day.
Tom: Still plenty of light left.
Mrs. Morris: Don’t I know it. You know where he is. If you need any help, just holler.
Tom: I can handle him. Thanks Delilah.
“I started off down the hall, turning when she called out again.”
Mrs. Morris: Saw you on the TV by the way. Finally putting that fight in ya to get use, huh?
Tom: Yes indeed.
Mrs. Morris: I hope they’re paying you a decent wage to go out there and put your body on the line like that.
Tom: I can’t complain.
Mrs. Morris: Neither can I. You’re looking good out there...no shirt and all.
“I saw her creepy comment coming a mile away. Mrs. Morris had never been anything if not a lustful woman.”
Mrs. Morris: Fighting good too. What are you, 10-0?
Tom: 3-0...getting there though.
Mrs. Morris: I got a whole new reason to look forward to Sundays thanks to you and that chiseled body. Keep it up. And keeping showing off that skin.
Tom: Alright, will do.
“She muttered something about me being her husband one day to a nurse nearby as I turned the corner, lucky to be out of earshot of whatever come out of her mouth next.
Passing through an open doorway, I spotted my old man sitting on the edge of a chair in the activity room, a video game controller in his hand and another patient tapping him on the shoulder and talking in his ear.”
Patient: Billy, you finished yet? Billy, you -
Billy Frost: Does it look like I’m finished?! I just entered the temple! Now scram before I -
Tom: Ease up, Pops.
“The old man had been losing his mind for years. He knew my face, but it was rare that he called me by the name he’d given me. That day was no exception.”
Billy Frost: Jimmy! Tell this low life to leave me be! I just started the Water Temple and it’s gonna be a while.
Tom: Tom, Dad. It’s Tom. Remember?
Billy Frost: Yeah, yeah. That’s what I said. You don’t have to remind me. Your mother made sure to at lunch yesterday
“She’d been dead for twelve years.”
Tom: Did she now?
Billy Frost: You were right there! Sometimes, kid. Sometimes I think you’re losing your damn - SHIT!
“I reached his side in time to see him fall into a pit of what must have been lava.”
Billy Frost: DAMN WATER TEMPLE!
Patient: Hey Billy, you done yet?
Billy Frost: NO YOU SON OF A BITCH! NOW GET OUTTA HERE OR I’LL WHOMP YA!
“The old man stood up and cocked his arm back, causing the poor patient to flinch and withdraw. He eyed him angrily as the man sulked away and sat down at a table, glancing over at us like a frightened animal.”
Tom: Leave him be. And pause the game.
Billy Frost: But I’m just getting started on the Water Temple!
Tom: I don’t think that’s the -
“But explaining that water wasn’t orange and glowing was sure to be lost on my old man, and I dropped it. I snatched the controller and pressed the red button in the middle labeled ‘start’. The little elf man on screen was frozen amidst the fire all around him now, and my father turned his attention to me.”
Billy Frost: Who were those people in my room last night?
Tom: Probably your nurses..
Billy Frost: No, no, it was after they left. We had a big banquet in honor of my promotion at the mill. Dirk was there, and so was Mikey and Phil. But who were the other ones? I didn’t know ‘em.
Tom: I don’t know, Pops. Your friends, I imagine. Sounds like they all turned out for the party.
Billy Frost: Yeah, yeah. Sounds like they did.
Tom: How you feeling?
Billy Frost: Good. Sliced my finger off pushing some timber through the saw though.
“He held up his right hand and wiggled his nub of a pinky at me. It’d been that way all my life.
We sat and talked for a while.
We talked about how Peggy Jennings was after his heart, but he was already taking my mother to the high school dance.
We talked about the coon dog he’d had as a boy and how the dog gotten in a fight with a squirrel yesterday and lost.
We talked about his recent promotion at the mill some half a century ago.
We talked about my little brother Harry and how he hadn’t been around to visit him lately, but in truth he’d gone sailing and got himself lost at sea years before. No one had seen him since.
After nearly an hour of stories set in the past and warped by age and the onset of alzheimer's and dementia, I had had about all I could take for one day. It was difficult to see my old man this way. Always was. In his prime, he was the sharpest man I’d even known, and seeing him withered away in his present state always left a hollow spot in my mind where any optimism for the future once resided.
I changed the subject back to his video game, and he drew his attention to it as I reached out and hugged him. He hugged me back.”
Billy Frost: I love you, Tom.
Tom: Love you too, Pops. I’ll see you soon. Take it easy on these nurses, ok? Same goes for that friend of yours.
“He shot a glare over at the patient who sat at the nearby table, still eyeing my father and the video game he so longed to play. Standing up, I turned to leave before the old man grabbed my arm.
He may have been pushing 80 years old, but six decades of working at the timber mill had left him strong as an ox. And though he’d lost nearly all of his mind, a piece of him still existed in the present. I looked down at him, and his eyes glistened as he spoke lucidly.”
Billy Frost: I’m proud of you, son. I watch you every week. Your old man’s proud of you, you hear me?
Tom: I hear you, Pops.
“His lip quivered, and a light seemed to fade from his eyes as a look of confusion came over him.”
Billy Frost: My legs are leaking again.
Tom: Ah...those damn legs.
“I called for a nurse as a giant wet spot near the groin area of his sweatpants presented itself. She stood him up, and before escorting him off to the bathroom, she turned to me.”
Nurse: Still refuses to wear adult diapers. Stubborn as a mule, your Father.
Tom: Sorry about that.
“But she smiled and shrugged before escorting him to the bathroom, and I made for the exit. Turning to look over my shoulder, I caught one last glimpse of him. He was looking my way, and he left me with a wink before turning toward the video game set up and hollering at the patient to back off, reminding him of the Water Temple he was yet to explore.
I strode back down the hallway and turned toward the exit to find Mrs. Morris standing by the front desk.”
Mrs. Morris: How was he?
Tom: He...well, he was his usual self. Didn’t know where or when he was except for about ten seconds. His legs were leaking again…
Mrs. Morris: Ha! I swear, that man will never admit to wetting himself. Well don’t worry, Tom, he’s in good hands. We’ll take care of him.
Tom: I don’t doubt it for a second. ‘Til next time, Delilah.
Mrs. Morris: Bye Sugar. And good luck this Sunday! I’m gonna have my eye on you!
Tom: I’ll make you proud.
Mrs. Morris: You’ll make me weak in the knees is what!
“I nodded and made for the door, hoping to be outside before her raunchiness rose to an unbearable level. Successful, I hopped in my ‘Olds ‘55, which roared as I brought it back to life.
The radio was playing nothing but shit, and after a few passes through each channel I shut it off in favor of silence. But as I sucked on an Old Gold, my thoughts turned from my old man back to the matter at hand, that being Rumpke, and the silence didn’t last long before my gruff voice broke it.”
Tom: I hope you’re not as forgetful as my old man, Rumpke. I hope you remember exactly what I did to you in our debut match. You may have done the majority of the eliminating, but in the end you couldn’t outlast me, which of course is the entire purpose of a battle royal. But this time’s gonna be different. This Sunday, you’re not going to be able to simply throw me over the top rope and pick up an easy win. No...not only are you going to have to outlast me, but you’re going to have to pin my shoulders for three to do it. In each of my one-one-one matches thus far, both men have failed...and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let you be the first to succeed.
Speaking of success, that’s exactly what you managed to capture a bit of the week after we debuted. And congratulations, you pinned...ah, Captain Rump. And you did so before the likes of Menaki and Udy were able to.
Let me repeat that:
You defeated Captain Rump, Menaki, and Udy.
Please allow me to rescind my congrats.
I’m always one in favor looking on the bright side. Sure, it doesn’t always work out, and lord knows I’ve seen my share of dark days. But if you think getting a win over those three gives you anything remotely close to bragging rights, think again. I pinned Menaki with ease. I beat the shit out of that great redwood and exposed him for the dandelion he is. I pinned Ryan O’Callaghan, a man who once showed promise in this business, though after falling to me, who knows what his future holds. I don’t think I need to remind you that I took a beating by your hand before I went out there and got the job done. And if your presence outside the ring can’t keep me down inside it, how could you possibly manage to keep me down when we’re going at it for real?
Maybe I’ve got it all wrong though. Maybe you’re not still riding high after picking up your first victory over a group of schlubs who likely won’t be around come spring. Maybe you were so livid about having to square off against those three that you decided to seek me out and release some of that anger on me backstage on Slam. Maybe so, maybe not. Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that you fucked with the wrong man, and because of it I’m gunning for you with all I’ve got.
“Turning the window lever, I flicked my cigarette out. In my contained rage, though, I hadn’t noticed the car driving alongside me. For whatever reason, its windows were rolled down, and I watched as the butt fell into the lap of a small child. She picked it up and examined it, a look of confusion written on her face before she turned my way. ‘Don’t smoke!’ I shouted, and she smiled as her mother turned around to check on her. Luckily, a line of traffic slowed them down before I could get a scolding, and I cruised on by them as I rolled my window back up.”
Tom: Funny thing about all this, Rumpke - about this beef we’ve got going - is that at the outset, you didn’t make a single mention of me.
In this business, I learned early on that studying your opponents is the best way to get an edge on them. And when I watched your promo for our debut, not once did my name come up. Not once. You completely overlooked me. That was your first mistake, and you’ve done nothing but fuck up since.
You’re dealing with one of the fiercest wrestlers - or brawlers, if we’re speaking your language - in the WCF. You’re dealing with old Tom Frost, dammit, and I’m not someone you can overlook and walk away having gotten the best of me.
There are two things I excel at in this world, Rumpke: making music, and making grown men beg for mercy. I can play the keys like Mozart, had he been raised by wolves in the wild. I can sing a tune like Sinatra had he eaten rusty nails and smoked rubber tires every day of his life. I can make a guitar hum and sing like an angel, or I can make it cry and scream like the devil himself. This Sunday, though, you’re my instrument, and I’m gonna make you cry out in agony when I get my hands on you; I’m gonna make you scream and beg for death. I won’t oblige you. You’re leaving that bar room alive, albeit on a stretcher if I have my way. But when I unleash on you for those grueling minutes that drag on for what seems like a lifetime, you’ll wish you were pushing daisies.
“Up ahead was Rosie’s Diner, and my belly rumbled at the sight of the neon sign out front as if I were one of Pavlov’s dogs. My heart started to ache a bit too, because that’s where my sweet Anna Marie spent her days toiling away making coffee and pie, among other things. I almost stopped in, but when I didn’t see her car parked out back, I rolled on past and let out a sigh.
Last time I’d spoken with her, I was in the clink for a night having just taken out a man who resembled Rumpke. She wasn’t pleased, and I wanted more than anything to make amends; to show her I could change, so that one day she might reciprocate the love I had for her. But today wasn’t that day, and so I headed over to Lou’s for a drink and a burger.
Lou was about as happy to see me stroll through his doors as Anna Marie would have been at the diner. Fortunately, the only thing I had to convince him of was that I wouldn’t beat the daylights out of one his patrons.”
Lou: I don’t want any shit from you today, Tom.
Tom: I won’t give you any.
Lou: I got a business to run here, and what with you getting into it with my patrons every damn week, I’m losing out on it. No bullshit, you got it?
Tom: Got it, Lou. Now let me get a cheeseburger and onion rings. Hold the spit.
Lou: That all?
Tom: And a Wild Turkey, neat.
“I took a seat at the far end of the bar and lit up an Old Gold. Smoke began filling up my corner of the place as I scoped it out. It was empty aside from a couple teenagers who were probably skipping class to shoot some pool and an old man sitting at the other end of the bar. He looked up and met my gaze, then raised his glass. I nodded in kind.
Lou poured my drink and disappeared into the kitchen to make my order. My belly was throwing a fit by then, but my appetite was suppressed by my desire to pummel and pin Rumpke once and for all. I took a deep drag of my cigarette, and smoke billowed from my mouth as I spoke.”
Tom: Here we are, Rumpke. This Sunday, in a place more or less the same as this, you’ll finally get the comeuppance you’ve earned over these past few weeks.
The bossman was wise when he made the stipulation for our match at Rise Up. A bar room brawl, and which two men on the roster are more at home in the confines of a bar? None. In my three in-ring matches, I’ve found that I’m just as comfortable dishing out punishment between the ropes as I am sipping bourbon on a barstool. I can’t say the same for you, because although you’ve earned a victory in the squared circle, you’ve also known defeat...something I’m yet to be acquainted with.
But when we go at it amongst the booze, the bar stools, and the broken dreams, we’ll both be in familiar territory. To the unaccustomed observer, it may seem as though we’ll be on equal footing this Sunday. Anyone who’s seen me take care of business in the WCF thus far, though, knows better.
That includes you, Rumpke.
You’ve seen what I can do, and likewise I’ve seen what you can do. I won’t kid myself. You pose a challenge, and you’re a legitimate threat whenever you go toe-to-toe with another man. But the challenge you pose is one I’ve overcome time and again in countless bar fights, and the legitimacy of your threat pales in comparison to my own.
It’s no secret that you’ll do whatever it takes to win. And at Rise Up, you’ll have every opportunity to take advantage of your surroundings in hopes they’ll aid you in attaining the greatest victory of your career. There’s gonna be glass, chairs, and tables. There’ll be pool cues, toilets, and plenty of awkward angles to slam these old bones up against. The booze will spill from shattered glass just as the blood will spill from our battered bodies.
But no matter how many bottles you break over my skull - no matter how many bar stools you break over my back - there’ll be one breaking over you in its stead and then some. Because you see, there’s no cheating this Sunday. Everything’s fair game, and you’re devious, cheap-shotting nature won’t have any advantage over me. I’m going to blow through that bar room like a bull in a china shop, and when it’s finally time to pin your shoulders for three, it’s going to look like a goddamn bomb just went off. There will be nothing left intact...your foolish pride and misguided dreams of victory included.
“Throwing back my drink, I raised a finger to Lou and pointed it toward my glass when he looked over. He filled me up and told me my meal would be out shortly as I lit another cigarette. Contemplating Rumpke and Rise Up, I took a few drags and started again.”
Tom: Maybe I should be more careful with my words. After all, I’m dealing with a drug-addict here. To which drugs you’re addicted I can’t say, but it’s probably in my best interest if it’s not crack or PCP or meth. But even if you do get high and become some kind of sewer-surfing superhero before our match, it won’t bring you up to my level. Hell, I’m an addict to, but unlike you I stick to booze and cigarettes mostly. Occasionally though, I just can’t help but beat the shit out of someone who deserves it. And wouldn’t you know it, you deserve it more than anyone in recent memory.
Should I pity you and for your addictions? Should I feel any sympathy whatsoever for your drug-addled mind that’s been warped into thinking you’re destined to pin old Tom Frost this Sunday? God no. I have none whatsoever for you, and the fact that I don’t know you as a person doesn’t have anything to do with it. I may not know who your high school sweetheart was - poor gal - or what songs mommy used to sing you at night when she tucked you into bed, or what your deepest darkest secrets are. None of that matters. What I do know of you, though, is that you’ve got some mean fists, and they lash out like rattlesnakes in the brush.
But here I come, Rumpke, tramping all over that brush, dancing and stomping around, blowing my horn as loud as I can in an attempt to piss you off and lure you out into the open. I hear those rattlers shaking. I hear the hisses; feel the venom you spit onto my legs. It’s supposed to warn me. It’s supposed to scare me, but nothing about you scares me, Rumpke. Not a goddamn thing. Not your mind. Not your fists. Nothing.
You said I dodged a bullet in not being booked against you after I beat you the first time. The irony, of course, is that you haven’t shown your face since you attacked me backstage a week later. Well now I’m stepping right out in front of that bullet, and I’m wearing an impenetrable kevlar body suit. It’d take a machine gun just to bring me to my knees, and all you’ve got are your fists.
I’m hungry, Rumpke. I’m so goddamn hungry. But I need only bear the pangs for a few more days, because this Sunday at Rise Up, you’re being served up to me on a platter...and I’ve got one hell of an appetite for conquest.
“Snuffing my cigarette out in an ashtray, I looked up just in time to see Lou bringing my meal over. I thanked him as he set it down in front me, taking in the sweet smell of grease as my hunger reached a climax. I dug in, and when there was nothing left but spilled crumbs, I slapped a twenty on the bar and strode off toward the door.
‘One appetite quenched,’ I thought to myself.
‘One more to go.’”