Post by Deleted on Jan 1, 2012 8:44:35 GMT -5
Filed Under: Leveled... By A War Within, Part Two (Or, "Jesus In Hell")
Jam Willy's eyelids flutter to life. He finds himself awakening upon a cold slab of stone, the ground beneath him. At first Willy finds himself surrounded by darkness, but gradually his eyes fixate upon an orange-flickering glow in the distance. Willy sits up and takes a moment to collect his bearings and ingest his surroundings. None of this makes sense to him. The last thing that he remembers, he was trying to get laid by some red-headed chick in a back room at Ray's Bar. Now he finds himself in this eerie realm with no recollection of how he arrived here. Willy swats his hands around in the relative darkness and finds nothing to grab hold of, nothing to steady himself with... just that cold slab of stone beneath him that constitutes the ground. Willy gradually overcomes the swirling disorientation in his inebriated brain and stumbles to his feet, thankfully not hitting his head upon any possible stone wall or walls that could surround him in this dim lighting.
At first Jam Willy doesn't know what to think. He doesn't know what to feel. He doesn't know what the hell is going on. All he can see is that orange-flickering glow. Something inside of him, a gut feeling, an instinct, even a premonition, whatever it might be, is telling Willy to be cautious. Don't tread swiftly. Keep your wits about you. Proceed with caution. There's something else though... feelings of hopelessness and despair are beginning to overwhelm Willy's consciousness. At first they were subtle and Willy ignored them, but they have quickly grown and now Willy is both lost in this dark, unknown place and feeling like a piece of walking, talking, breathing shit. He feels guilt. He feels regret. He doesn't know why... yet. That's the most troubling part. Right now, Willy doesn't know anything. What can he say? What can he think? What can he do?
Jam Willy Jesus: "Well shit... it looks like I done finally hit rock bottom."
Just then, Willy gets a sniff of something putrid, something that is invading his nostrils at an alarming rate. Wherever he is, the smell of sulfur and death is hanging heavy in the air. Jam Willy is not an easy man to frighten, but his concern is growing, along with those tormenting feelings of guilt and despair that are just gnawing away at him like acid. Jam Willy sighs a troubled sigh. The only thing that he can figure to do is walk toward the orange glow, otherwise he'll just be standing around in the dark. If he wants to get out of wherever he is, then it will help to view his possible escape route in the light, as orange and flickering as it might be.
Jam Willy is wishing that he had some of those shots from Ray's Bar right about now to calm his nerves. That Jägermeister would certainly hit the spot, but fuck it. A man has to face life's challenges head on. He can't count on alcohol induced bravado to carry him past the obstacles that he's faced with. Willy doesn't know how far away that light is. It could be a hundred yards, it could be ten miles, or more. It's impossible to measure. It's impossible to even say whether that light will help him find his way out of this place, but it's his only feasible option. Willy takes a deep breath and begins his walk. One foot in front of the other, Willy. Just like when those cops pulled you over and tried to pop you for that DUI. You walked the straight and narrow path that Christ walked and they didn't have shit on you. You even recited the alphabet backwards without skipping a beat. You made it onto Cops that week. Remember that, Willy? It was your fifteen minutes of pre-WCF fame.
Pre-WCF life wasn't always gravy though. Fuck, WCF-life hasn't been gravy thanks to an evil clown and an exploitative boss who will do anything to make a buck, including grossly underpaying his employees. Still though, at least your life has some direction now... kinda. Remember when Mama died? She spent all of those years busting her hump for you. She worked three jobs at once. That's three shifts a day for six days a week to provide for you. It killed her, Willy. It sent her to an early grave. You can't blame yourself for it, not in your rational mind anyway, but you feel the guilt. What if she had never gotten pregnant by that scumbag, that deadbeat? What if she had never had to raise you by herself? She would probably be alive today, Willy. She would've never croaked at such a young age. A heart attack? Who dies of a heart attack in their early forties? It's not like she was a fat slob. She was anything but. She was relatively fit, even attractive for a woman of her age and social class. Nor did she have a family history of heart disease.
It was you, Willy. You did it. You killed her.
Jam Willy: "NO! I DIDN'T! I LOVED MY MAMA!"
Scream, Willy. Hoot. Holler. Do whatever it is that your primal, subhuman instincts tell you to do. It doesn't change the facts. If it wasn't for you, your mama would still be alive. You killed her with your selfish dependency. Oh but you'll tell yourself that you were just a young boy, right? That's the card that you'll play? There was nothing more you could have done? There is always more, Willy. What did you ever contribute other than odd jobs that paid you nickels and dimes? Nickels and dimes don't keep a household running, Willy. Never have and never will. Not even in the poorest of nations. You're an American. You should've had some pride, damn it. You should have gone out there and earned a living, a real living. You should have supported your mother, instead of relying upon her to support you. Does that make sense, Willy? Or do you want to fumble for excuses? Excuses to shield yourself from the blame?
Jam Willy: "I didn't... I didn't know that she was killin' herself. I didn't know that I was the reason."
You're so full of shit, Willy. Just as I thought. Just as we all knew that you would, you're making up excuses. You're honestly trying to deflect the blame when we all know that it was you, YOU, and you alone that your mother was working to support. A young boy, a growing boy, a boy with the wits and the ability to go out there and be whatever he wanted to be. You just... you lacked ambition. You lacked drive. In short, you were a lazy, worthless deadbeat. You were a scumbag just like your daddy.
Jam Willy: "Don't ever compare me to him! I'm nothing like him! I hate that bastard!"
And yet, he's a part of you, and you're a part of him. Cry yourself a river, Willy. Scream bloody murder until you're blue in the face. You know that it's true. You know that it's undeniable. You are your old man. And that, as much as anything, is what killed your mother. Your father, the worthless bastard, broke her heart when he left her. And you, YOU, broke her heart when you ended up just like him. No, you didn't leave her, but that's just the point. You tormented her every single day when she looked at you... and saw him.
Jam Willy: "I guess... no. I know that's true. I killed Mama. God damn me, I sent that wonderful woman to an early grave. After all that she did for me, that's how I repaid her. Mother of God, Willy... mother of fucking God. You are a piece of work. Just like your old man."
Willy doesn't say another word. Not a peep. He just marches toward the orange-flickering glow, with burden hanging heavy in his heart and an aura of pain and sorrow weighing upon his mortal soul. After what feels like an eternity, an eternity in Hell, Willy finds that the orange light is just a little bit further. A few more yards, a few more strides, just another push through the darkness and he'll be there. It's not even so dark anymore. Willy can see himself, his body. He's wearing the same clothes that he was wearing at Ray's Bar. His beaded necklace, denim jacket, Ramones shirt, jeans and boots. This isn't a dream. It's can't be. Dreams aren't this vivid. Not his dreams. Willy steps into the orange glow. As it grows brighter he finds it blinding and closes his eyes, but the flickering provides a temporary reprieve, and Willy uses it to scour his surroundings.
Jam Willy: "Hello! Is there anybody here? Hello! Anyone!"
Willy feels a tremendous heat coming from this seemingly endless rock cavern that he has entered. It's a welcomed change from the cold of the darkness, even if he cannot determine the origin of the heat nor that mysterious orange glow. The rock walls that surround Willy are all that he can identify at the moment, and they hardly tell him much of anything. He already knew that wherever he was, there were rocks aplenty. So what happened? Did he get drunk at Ray's and stumble into a cave? If so, how the hell does he get out? And what ever happened to that redhead who bought him the drink at the bar? Did she drop him here, perhaps as a prank that a rich, upper-glass girl from the city would play on a poor country boy? Willy appears dismayed by all of the speculation.
Jam Willy: "Hrmph... I really thought she coulda been the one. God, she had a great ass. And that hair? I love redheads. Fuckin' love 'em. I would spend a month in bed fuckin' a redhead if I could. Wouldn't break for shittin' or eatin' neither. Well, unless I was eatin' her."
Willy sighs and as he does so his apprehension is apparent.
Jam Willy: "So this is how it's gonna end for ol' Jam Willy, eh? Lost and stumblin' drunk around a fuckin' cave. Sad, main... fuckin' sad. I never even got to whoop that fuckin' clown. Now that really pisses me off. I mean, shit... if there was one thing I wanted to do with my life, it was mutilate an evil clown on TV for money. Sure, I carved his face up with a fork and curb stomped his ass through a men's room urinal a while back, but that ain't the same as actually beatin' the life out of his flesh and blood body and seizin' his mortal coil for my own. That adds to your longevi-teh, ya know? When you kill another man you gain his power, his vitality. It's like the Fountain of Youth."
Willy's monologue is halted as his eyes suddenly lock onto the source of the orange-flickering glow and the heat. Willy is standing before a massive wall of fire. As he gazes to either side of the wall, he notices that it appears to take on a circular shape at the sides. Indeed it is a burnin' ring of fire, much like the one that Johnny Cash sang about in his trademark tune. It's hard to avoid letting your eyes become lost in the dance of the flickering flames, especially after spending so much time in relative darkness. Jam Willy stands and stares, mesmerized by the fiery spectacle that towers before him. The heat is becoming a bit much though. It was cold in the darkness, bone-chilling even, but Willy has warmed up and the heat of the flames is having an adverse affect on him now. Willy can feel beads of sweat forming on his brow and dripping down his beard. He decides to navigate the perimeter of the fiery ring, in the hope that if this is some man made phenomenon it will lead him to an exit.
Willy pushes aside the heat and the fatigue that his body is feeling and he strides purposefully, hoping that his efforts will not be in vain, though that uneasy feeling inside of him is wrangling with his emotions. He truly has no way of knowing how far he's walking, whether he's making any progress at all or just walking in a big circle. Willy tries to push the negative thoughts out of his mind, the thoughts of his late Mama's untimely death, the thoughts that he's spinning his wheels and truly has no way out of this place, the thoughts that he will meet his own untimely demise here. Willy follows that circular inferno for what feels like hours before he finally sees a hint of movement in the far distance. Willy squints his eyes, trying to determine who or what it could be. He's too far away. He needs to get closer. Willy runs. He runs for all that he's worth like a desperate man who's on his last legs, because that's exactly what he is.
Finally, Willy is close enough to see what he couldn't quite see earlier. The sight before Willy is a truly perplexing one. A single-file line of skeletons, actual human skeletons, is exiting through a gap in the fiery wall. They extend to a line of at least twenty before stopping in their tracks and turning to face Willy. The skeletons stare directly at Willy, but they do not otherwise acknowledge him. Willy doesn't react. Even if he did... what would he do? These are skeletons, standing in place, staring at him from about twenty feet away. None of the skeletons move a muscle... or, a bone rather. They stand in place, as if waiting for a cue.
Are they waiting for Willy to say or do something? If so, they'll be waiting for a while. Willy stands as still as a stature, still not sure what to do... or even whether this is real or a hallucination. It sure looks real. The heat of those flames feels real. The crackle of the fire sounds real. The sweat in his mouth tastes real. Ew, sweat. Willy spits on the ground, breaking his statuesque pose. As he realizes what he's done, he suddenly freezes up again, but it's too late. A feeling of dread overcomes Willy. Soon the sound of what could best be described as a combination of whirring sirens and militaristic style drum beats invade his ear space. A harsh, spoken word vocal soon accompanies the instrumentation.
"Do you want... Total war? Throw out Christ... and bring back Thor?"
Adding to the surrealness of the situation, the line of skeletons have begun dancing in rhythm with the song, showing all the poise and technique of a professional troupe. They're swingin' and swayin' and beboppin' and scattin' all over the place, never missing a beat or falling out of sync. It soon dawns upon Willy that these skeleton dancers are baring their souls to him, bearing their sins, coaxing him to bare his. Can he do it? Should he? Hasn't he already confessed to enough in this... place? As Willy contemplates, the song eventually draws to a close. The skeleton dancers return to their single-file line, staring at Jam Willy. Willy blinks his eyes once, twice, three times... and the skeletons disappear. Willy jumps back. That, THAT, was perhaps the biggest surprise of this entire experience thus far.
Truth be told Willy was enjoying the show and now... now he's just alone again with no clue of where to go or what to do. Suddenly, when all hope seems lost, a voice beckons to Jam Willy. It is a female voice, faint at first, though as it grows louder it becomes increasingly familiar. Jam Willy knows that he's heard this voice before.
Female Voice: "Willy, come closer. Follow my voice. Come to me, Willy!"
Jam Willy Jesus is not the type of man to deprive a young, seductive female of his presence, especially during this most bizarre set of circumstances. Jam Willy walks toward the gap in the wall of fire, the same gap that the skeletons appeared from earlier. When Willy reaches the gap, he gazes ahead, squinting his eyes in order to focus them. He sees an outline of what appears to be a throne, though it's hard to tell because the glow of the flames only casts a partial light upon it. It's a sort of half-light, half-darkness phenomenon.
Female Voice: "Closer, Willy. You've come this far. Don't stop now!"
Willy does as he's instructed and walks toward his destination. As he does it becomes clear that it was a throne that he was gazing at earlier, and seated upon the throne is a woman. The woman has orange-reddish hair, but she's leaning over with her head in her lap, obscuring her face, her hair dangling down her legs... toward those cloven, black hooves. This is unmistakably the woman from Ray's Bar, the one who bought Willy the drink... and those hooves were the last thing that Willy saw before he woke up here. The throne that the woman is seated upon is solid gold encrusted with jewels, magnificent in its grandeur and opulence, but Willy doesn't care about any of that. He wants answers. Who is this woman? Why has she brought him here? Where is here?
The woman slowly raises her head, sitting up in her throne, and Willy is shocked by what he sees. The woman reveals her identity to be none other than... Shannan Lerch. Willy stares at Shannan with his eyes wide and his mouth agape. After several moments pass he finally snaps out of his trance and stammers the first words that come to mind.
Jam Willy: "Y-you? It's you? Don't you announce my matches in Dub-See-Eff?"
She-devil Shannan appears disgusted that the hairy clod cannot even remember her name. She reaches to the side of her throne and picks up a trident, or three-pronged spear, and holds it up in front of her. The metallic prongs have been sharpened and shined and they gleam in the firelight. Shannan holds the trident up to Jam Willy's throat, threatening him with it. Jam Willy gulps hard. He's not scared of dying, but between the shock from the situation and the heat from those damned flames... he's not feeling comfortable right now.
Shannan Lerch: "I want you to kneel, Jam Willy. Kneel at my feet like a good servant."
Shannan motions for Jam Willy to do as such with her trident, but Jam Willy hesitates.
Jam Willy: "Uh, do you mean your hooves?"
Shannan: "Yes! Now do it! Kneel at my feet!"
Shannan threatens him again by holding those razor-sharp prongs up to his throat, but she relents, allowing him to kneel before her. Once Willy has humbled himself by kneeling, Shannan rises to her feet and raises her arms above her head.
Shannan: "Jam Willy Jesus, I condemn thee to suffer! I condemn thee to wander this barren land for all eternity! I condemn thee to serve my beck and call, and, Jam Willy... I will spend every waking moment tormenting you until I am satisfied!"
Jam Willy: "Why? Why are you doin' this to me, Sharon?"
Shannan clocks Willy over the head with the shaft of her trident, the force of the blow knocking him to the ground, and nearly knocking him out.
Shannan: "It's Shannan, you imbecile!"
Shannan sits down upon her throne again, presently content with having nearly killed Jam Willy. She playfully kicks at him with a hoof as he recovers on the ground.
Shannan: "I don't like you, Jam Willy. You're a dead beat, a bum... a rotten, filthy, nasty scumbag. Even that Switches the Clown is better than you!"
Willy sits up in a huff on the rock floor.
Jam Willy: "Nah, man! No way! He sucks! I hate that guy!"
Shannan: "Silence, insolent one!"
Shannan threatens with another strike from her trident and Jam Willy recoils in pseudo-horror.
Jam Willy: "Shannan, you have to get me out of here. I'm Jesus. Jesus can't be in no Hell!"
Shannan: "Do you really think it's that easy, Willy? Do you think you can beg your way out of this? After all that you've done, Willy, this is the fate that you have reaped. This is the wage of your sins. You killed your mother. You even admitted it earlier."
Jam Willy stares shamefully at the ground. He has no reply, no retort, no argument that he can use to counter what Shannan is saying.
Shannan: "She's not the only one that you've claimed to love only to exploit for your selfish deeds. It's your fault that Henrietta is dead. You killed her."
Willy looks up at Shannan and glares at her.
Jam Willy: "What the hell are you talkin' 'bout!? I didn't have nothin' to do with that! It was that damn clown that done killed Henrietta!"
Shannan pouts in mock pity for Jam Willy.
Shannan: "Oh sure... blame the clown. Except... where were you while the clown was performing his homicidal rampage on your beloved pick-up truck? You should have been there for her but you abandoned her so that you could drink your responsibilities away with your buddy Jack Daniels. You left Henriette all alone. You left her to die. Your truck is dead because of you!"
Jam Willy: "Now you wait just a cotton-pickin' minute now, you bitch!"
Willy rises to his feet, only to immediately be kicked in the groin by a precisely aimed hoof, dropping him to the ground while he clutches at his manhood. Willy rolls onto his stomach and hoists his keister into the air, trying to alleviate the pressure on his groin.
Shannan: "Tsk, tsk, Willy... you were going to hurt me just now. I'm not going to become your next victim. I'm not going to end up like Mama and Henrietta. You're on MY turf, Willy!"
Shannan jabs Willy in the ass with the tri-pronged head of her trident. Willy yelps out in pain.
Jam Willy: "Ouch, you stupid bitch, that hurt!"
Shannan cackles gleefully and jabs Willy in the ass with her trident once again.
Jam Willy: "I said OUCH!"
Again and again, Shannan jabs Jam Willy's ass with the business end of her trident. Willy closes his eyes and grits his teeth as he takes the abuse like only a tough, raised-right, country boy from North Dakota can. After awhile, the cackling stops. The jabbing stops. The pain dissipates. The heat turns to cold. The smell of sulfur and death gives way to brats and burgers... and cheesesteak. A bright light shines in Jam Willy's eyes and he opens them, holding a hand up as a shield... against the sun. Willy blinks his eyes a few times and studies his surroundings.
He finds himself lying on a cold, concrete sidewalk in front of a huge building, a sporting venue of sorts. He looks closer at the building and sees the words "Wells Fargo Arena" in big, bold letters on the side of the building. Willy slowly rises to his feet and brushes himself off. He's wearing the same clothes that he was wearing at Ray's Bar... the same clothes that he was wearing in his dream... or was it reality? Regardless, Jam Willy Jesus has arrived at Wells Fargo Arena in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania on the day of One without any recollection of how he arrived here.
Jam Willy: "How the fuck did I get here? Is Philly Hell? Goddamn... what was in that drink that chick bought me?"
Willy's head is aching. He massages his scalp with his hands while trying to make sense of his situation. That chick... that chick... that chick was Shannan Lerch! He remembers now. He still can't make sense of what happened, but at least he has a clue. As fate, or coincidence, would have it, Jam Willy spots Shannan out of the corner of his eye. She's walking toward the entrance of the arena, no doubt on her way to prepare for WCF's biggest night of the year. Jam Willy needs to know whether everything that happened to him was a dream or whether it was reality. Some strange, unexplainable reality. Willy runs over to Shannan to catch up with her and then taps her on the shoulder, just as she's opening the door to enter the building. Shannan looks at Jam Willy and screams.
Shannan: "Help! Security! A hobo is trying to rape me!"
Jam Willy: "No, no, Shannan! I'm a wrestler! It's Jam Willy!"
After a few moments Shannan gradually ceases struggling as she begins to recognize him.
Shannan: "Oh... Jam Willy! It's you! God... you look like shit!"
Jam Willy: "Yeah, well, I had a rough night. Can you do me a favor?"
Shannan: "Well, I guess you can use the shower in my dressing room. Just don't clog the drain with your hair!"
Jam Willy: "No, no, it's not that. I need you to take your shoes off for me."
Shannan appears bewildered by Willy's request.
Shannan: "What? I mean, that's kind of strange, Willy..."
Sensing that this is getting him nowhere, Willy tries a different approach.
Jam Willy: "You heard me, she-devil! Take off your shoes! Show me your hooves!"
Willy reaches down and grabs Shannan's left foot. He tries to yank the high heel right off her foot while she struggles against him, fighting him tooth and nail all the way.
Shannan: "Get your hands off of me, you creep!"
Jam Willy finally pulls the heel off of Shannan's foot, revealing that she does in fact have a normal female human foot, with five toes painted red, just as he likes them. Willy breathes a sigh of relief before Shannan kicks him in the nuts with her bare foot and yanks her heel from his clutches. She slides her shoe back on and runs away inside the arena while Willy grabs at his junk and falls to the ground, the pain overwhelming him.
Jam Willy: "AAAAARRRRRRGHHWOOOOOGHHHHH!!!!! (or something to that effect)"
As Jam Willy continues his imitation of the mating sounds of the male humpback whale, none other than Hank Brown stumbles upon him, with microphone and cameraman in tow. Hank has a cheesy smile plastered on his face and a cheesy suit plastered on his body.
Hank Brown: "Hey! It's Jam Willy Jesus! What cha doin' down there, Jam Willy?"
Hank smiles, almost sadistically but still cheesily, at Willy.
Jam Willy: [under his breath] "Oh fuck this guy..."
Jam Willy sits up on the ground, still holding his aching nuts.
Jam Willy: "I'm dyin', Hank. That's what I'm doin' down here. There's your scoop, would you mind leavin' me be now?"
Hank: "Don't be silly, Willy! Here-- let me give you a hand."
Hank extends his hand to Willy and Willy... grudgingly accepts as Hank helps him back to his feet.
Jam Willy: "Well, gee, thanks, Hank. I'll be on my way now."
Willy turns, nuts still sore as fuck, and starts to walk away...
Hank: "Whoa. You really look like shit, Willy."
Hank sniffs at Willy's person.
Hank: "Did you sleep in a dumpster last night?"
Willy takes offense at the line of questioning and the overall intrusion by WCF's resident interviewer, but he politely answers Hank anyway.
Jam Willy: "As a matter of fact I'm not sure where the hell I slept last night or even if there was a last night, but thank you for your concern. Now what the fuck do you want?"
Hank: "Whoa, calm down, buddy!"
Jam Willy: "I'm not yer damn buddy! I have a match to prepare for today or tomorrow or whenever Sunday is, and if you think I'm just gonna stand here and shoot the shit with you then you're out of your cotton-pickin' mind!"
Hank leans in close to Willy, as Willy eyes him suspiciously.
Hank: [whispering into Willy's ear] "If you don't answer at least one match-related question for me, on camera, then you don't get paid. That's how this works, asshole."
Hank flashes that cheesy smile at Willy. Willy glares at him, looking like he wants to do to Hank what he did to Switches in that men's room a few weeks back.
Jam Willy: "Alright, Hank. Ask your question. One question. Make it a good one."
Hank holds that ol' trademark microphone up to his mouth and flashes that ol' trademark... well, cheesy smile into the camera.
Hank: "I think it's obvious, Willy, that there's one thing that everybody wants to know: What are your thoughts as you head into your match against Switches the Clown at One in a no holds barred Philadelphia street fight?"
Jam Willy pauses for a moment to consider his answer before replying.
Jam Willy: "Hank, I cannot live with this hatred and blood lust that's inside of meh anymore. This is the end game. Tonight, Switches the Clown must not be allowed to walk out of One. I have a responsibili-teh to socie-teh to make sure that Switches never terrorizes anyone ever again. I cannot fail, and I will not fail. Tonight, Switches the Clown will meet his demise in a most brutal fashion. Switches, you are... a dead clown walkin'. Now stick that in yer crack pipe and smoke it, ya prick!"
Willy glares into the camera for a hearty moment before walking away. Hank signals cut. The image fades. We're out. Peace. Grab your popcorn and enjoy the show tonight.
Jam Willy's eyelids flutter to life. He finds himself awakening upon a cold slab of stone, the ground beneath him. At first Willy finds himself surrounded by darkness, but gradually his eyes fixate upon an orange-flickering glow in the distance. Willy sits up and takes a moment to collect his bearings and ingest his surroundings. None of this makes sense to him. The last thing that he remembers, he was trying to get laid by some red-headed chick in a back room at Ray's Bar. Now he finds himself in this eerie realm with no recollection of how he arrived here. Willy swats his hands around in the relative darkness and finds nothing to grab hold of, nothing to steady himself with... just that cold slab of stone beneath him that constitutes the ground. Willy gradually overcomes the swirling disorientation in his inebriated brain and stumbles to his feet, thankfully not hitting his head upon any possible stone wall or walls that could surround him in this dim lighting.
At first Jam Willy doesn't know what to think. He doesn't know what to feel. He doesn't know what the hell is going on. All he can see is that orange-flickering glow. Something inside of him, a gut feeling, an instinct, even a premonition, whatever it might be, is telling Willy to be cautious. Don't tread swiftly. Keep your wits about you. Proceed with caution. There's something else though... feelings of hopelessness and despair are beginning to overwhelm Willy's consciousness. At first they were subtle and Willy ignored them, but they have quickly grown and now Willy is both lost in this dark, unknown place and feeling like a piece of walking, talking, breathing shit. He feels guilt. He feels regret. He doesn't know why... yet. That's the most troubling part. Right now, Willy doesn't know anything. What can he say? What can he think? What can he do?
Jam Willy Jesus: "Well shit... it looks like I done finally hit rock bottom."
Just then, Willy gets a sniff of something putrid, something that is invading his nostrils at an alarming rate. Wherever he is, the smell of sulfur and death is hanging heavy in the air. Jam Willy is not an easy man to frighten, but his concern is growing, along with those tormenting feelings of guilt and despair that are just gnawing away at him like acid. Jam Willy sighs a troubled sigh. The only thing that he can figure to do is walk toward the orange glow, otherwise he'll just be standing around in the dark. If he wants to get out of wherever he is, then it will help to view his possible escape route in the light, as orange and flickering as it might be.
Jam Willy is wishing that he had some of those shots from Ray's Bar right about now to calm his nerves. That Jägermeister would certainly hit the spot, but fuck it. A man has to face life's challenges head on. He can't count on alcohol induced bravado to carry him past the obstacles that he's faced with. Willy doesn't know how far away that light is. It could be a hundred yards, it could be ten miles, or more. It's impossible to measure. It's impossible to even say whether that light will help him find his way out of this place, but it's his only feasible option. Willy takes a deep breath and begins his walk. One foot in front of the other, Willy. Just like when those cops pulled you over and tried to pop you for that DUI. You walked the straight and narrow path that Christ walked and they didn't have shit on you. You even recited the alphabet backwards without skipping a beat. You made it onto Cops that week. Remember that, Willy? It was your fifteen minutes of pre-WCF fame.
Pre-WCF life wasn't always gravy though. Fuck, WCF-life hasn't been gravy thanks to an evil clown and an exploitative boss who will do anything to make a buck, including grossly underpaying his employees. Still though, at least your life has some direction now... kinda. Remember when Mama died? She spent all of those years busting her hump for you. She worked three jobs at once. That's three shifts a day for six days a week to provide for you. It killed her, Willy. It sent her to an early grave. You can't blame yourself for it, not in your rational mind anyway, but you feel the guilt. What if she had never gotten pregnant by that scumbag, that deadbeat? What if she had never had to raise you by herself? She would probably be alive today, Willy. She would've never croaked at such a young age. A heart attack? Who dies of a heart attack in their early forties? It's not like she was a fat slob. She was anything but. She was relatively fit, even attractive for a woman of her age and social class. Nor did she have a family history of heart disease.
It was you, Willy. You did it. You killed her.
Jam Willy: "NO! I DIDN'T! I LOVED MY MAMA!"
Scream, Willy. Hoot. Holler. Do whatever it is that your primal, subhuman instincts tell you to do. It doesn't change the facts. If it wasn't for you, your mama would still be alive. You killed her with your selfish dependency. Oh but you'll tell yourself that you were just a young boy, right? That's the card that you'll play? There was nothing more you could have done? There is always more, Willy. What did you ever contribute other than odd jobs that paid you nickels and dimes? Nickels and dimes don't keep a household running, Willy. Never have and never will. Not even in the poorest of nations. You're an American. You should've had some pride, damn it. You should have gone out there and earned a living, a real living. You should have supported your mother, instead of relying upon her to support you. Does that make sense, Willy? Or do you want to fumble for excuses? Excuses to shield yourself from the blame?
Jam Willy: "I didn't... I didn't know that she was killin' herself. I didn't know that I was the reason."
You're so full of shit, Willy. Just as I thought. Just as we all knew that you would, you're making up excuses. You're honestly trying to deflect the blame when we all know that it was you, YOU, and you alone that your mother was working to support. A young boy, a growing boy, a boy with the wits and the ability to go out there and be whatever he wanted to be. You just... you lacked ambition. You lacked drive. In short, you were a lazy, worthless deadbeat. You were a scumbag just like your daddy.
Jam Willy: "Don't ever compare me to him! I'm nothing like him! I hate that bastard!"
And yet, he's a part of you, and you're a part of him. Cry yourself a river, Willy. Scream bloody murder until you're blue in the face. You know that it's true. You know that it's undeniable. You are your old man. And that, as much as anything, is what killed your mother. Your father, the worthless bastard, broke her heart when he left her. And you, YOU, broke her heart when you ended up just like him. No, you didn't leave her, but that's just the point. You tormented her every single day when she looked at you... and saw him.
Jam Willy: "I guess... no. I know that's true. I killed Mama. God damn me, I sent that wonderful woman to an early grave. After all that she did for me, that's how I repaid her. Mother of God, Willy... mother of fucking God. You are a piece of work. Just like your old man."
Willy doesn't say another word. Not a peep. He just marches toward the orange-flickering glow, with burden hanging heavy in his heart and an aura of pain and sorrow weighing upon his mortal soul. After what feels like an eternity, an eternity in Hell, Willy finds that the orange light is just a little bit further. A few more yards, a few more strides, just another push through the darkness and he'll be there. It's not even so dark anymore. Willy can see himself, his body. He's wearing the same clothes that he was wearing at Ray's Bar. His beaded necklace, denim jacket, Ramones shirt, jeans and boots. This isn't a dream. It's can't be. Dreams aren't this vivid. Not his dreams. Willy steps into the orange glow. As it grows brighter he finds it blinding and closes his eyes, but the flickering provides a temporary reprieve, and Willy uses it to scour his surroundings.
Jam Willy: "Hello! Is there anybody here? Hello! Anyone!"
Willy feels a tremendous heat coming from this seemingly endless rock cavern that he has entered. It's a welcomed change from the cold of the darkness, even if he cannot determine the origin of the heat nor that mysterious orange glow. The rock walls that surround Willy are all that he can identify at the moment, and they hardly tell him much of anything. He already knew that wherever he was, there were rocks aplenty. So what happened? Did he get drunk at Ray's and stumble into a cave? If so, how the hell does he get out? And what ever happened to that redhead who bought him the drink at the bar? Did she drop him here, perhaps as a prank that a rich, upper-glass girl from the city would play on a poor country boy? Willy appears dismayed by all of the speculation.
Jam Willy: "Hrmph... I really thought she coulda been the one. God, she had a great ass. And that hair? I love redheads. Fuckin' love 'em. I would spend a month in bed fuckin' a redhead if I could. Wouldn't break for shittin' or eatin' neither. Well, unless I was eatin' her."
Willy sighs and as he does so his apprehension is apparent.
Jam Willy: "So this is how it's gonna end for ol' Jam Willy, eh? Lost and stumblin' drunk around a fuckin' cave. Sad, main... fuckin' sad. I never even got to whoop that fuckin' clown. Now that really pisses me off. I mean, shit... if there was one thing I wanted to do with my life, it was mutilate an evil clown on TV for money. Sure, I carved his face up with a fork and curb stomped his ass through a men's room urinal a while back, but that ain't the same as actually beatin' the life out of his flesh and blood body and seizin' his mortal coil for my own. That adds to your longevi-teh, ya know? When you kill another man you gain his power, his vitality. It's like the Fountain of Youth."
Willy's monologue is halted as his eyes suddenly lock onto the source of the orange-flickering glow and the heat. Willy is standing before a massive wall of fire. As he gazes to either side of the wall, he notices that it appears to take on a circular shape at the sides. Indeed it is a burnin' ring of fire, much like the one that Johnny Cash sang about in his trademark tune. It's hard to avoid letting your eyes become lost in the dance of the flickering flames, especially after spending so much time in relative darkness. Jam Willy stands and stares, mesmerized by the fiery spectacle that towers before him. The heat is becoming a bit much though. It was cold in the darkness, bone-chilling even, but Willy has warmed up and the heat of the flames is having an adverse affect on him now. Willy can feel beads of sweat forming on his brow and dripping down his beard. He decides to navigate the perimeter of the fiery ring, in the hope that if this is some man made phenomenon it will lead him to an exit.
Willy pushes aside the heat and the fatigue that his body is feeling and he strides purposefully, hoping that his efforts will not be in vain, though that uneasy feeling inside of him is wrangling with his emotions. He truly has no way of knowing how far he's walking, whether he's making any progress at all or just walking in a big circle. Willy tries to push the negative thoughts out of his mind, the thoughts of his late Mama's untimely death, the thoughts that he's spinning his wheels and truly has no way out of this place, the thoughts that he will meet his own untimely demise here. Willy follows that circular inferno for what feels like hours before he finally sees a hint of movement in the far distance. Willy squints his eyes, trying to determine who or what it could be. He's too far away. He needs to get closer. Willy runs. He runs for all that he's worth like a desperate man who's on his last legs, because that's exactly what he is.
Finally, Willy is close enough to see what he couldn't quite see earlier. The sight before Willy is a truly perplexing one. A single-file line of skeletons, actual human skeletons, is exiting through a gap in the fiery wall. They extend to a line of at least twenty before stopping in their tracks and turning to face Willy. The skeletons stare directly at Willy, but they do not otherwise acknowledge him. Willy doesn't react. Even if he did... what would he do? These are skeletons, standing in place, staring at him from about twenty feet away. None of the skeletons move a muscle... or, a bone rather. They stand in place, as if waiting for a cue.
Are they waiting for Willy to say or do something? If so, they'll be waiting for a while. Willy stands as still as a stature, still not sure what to do... or even whether this is real or a hallucination. It sure looks real. The heat of those flames feels real. The crackle of the fire sounds real. The sweat in his mouth tastes real. Ew, sweat. Willy spits on the ground, breaking his statuesque pose. As he realizes what he's done, he suddenly freezes up again, but it's too late. A feeling of dread overcomes Willy. Soon the sound of what could best be described as a combination of whirring sirens and militaristic style drum beats invade his ear space. A harsh, spoken word vocal soon accompanies the instrumentation.
"Do you want... Total war? Throw out Christ... and bring back Thor?"
Adding to the surrealness of the situation, the line of skeletons have begun dancing in rhythm with the song, showing all the poise and technique of a professional troupe. They're swingin' and swayin' and beboppin' and scattin' all over the place, never missing a beat or falling out of sync. It soon dawns upon Willy that these skeleton dancers are baring their souls to him, bearing their sins, coaxing him to bare his. Can he do it? Should he? Hasn't he already confessed to enough in this... place? As Willy contemplates, the song eventually draws to a close. The skeleton dancers return to their single-file line, staring at Jam Willy. Willy blinks his eyes once, twice, three times... and the skeletons disappear. Willy jumps back. That, THAT, was perhaps the biggest surprise of this entire experience thus far.
Truth be told Willy was enjoying the show and now... now he's just alone again with no clue of where to go or what to do. Suddenly, when all hope seems lost, a voice beckons to Jam Willy. It is a female voice, faint at first, though as it grows louder it becomes increasingly familiar. Jam Willy knows that he's heard this voice before.
Female Voice: "Willy, come closer. Follow my voice. Come to me, Willy!"
Jam Willy Jesus is not the type of man to deprive a young, seductive female of his presence, especially during this most bizarre set of circumstances. Jam Willy walks toward the gap in the wall of fire, the same gap that the skeletons appeared from earlier. When Willy reaches the gap, he gazes ahead, squinting his eyes in order to focus them. He sees an outline of what appears to be a throne, though it's hard to tell because the glow of the flames only casts a partial light upon it. It's a sort of half-light, half-darkness phenomenon.
Female Voice: "Closer, Willy. You've come this far. Don't stop now!"
Willy does as he's instructed and walks toward his destination. As he does it becomes clear that it was a throne that he was gazing at earlier, and seated upon the throne is a woman. The woman has orange-reddish hair, but she's leaning over with her head in her lap, obscuring her face, her hair dangling down her legs... toward those cloven, black hooves. This is unmistakably the woman from Ray's Bar, the one who bought Willy the drink... and those hooves were the last thing that Willy saw before he woke up here. The throne that the woman is seated upon is solid gold encrusted with jewels, magnificent in its grandeur and opulence, but Willy doesn't care about any of that. He wants answers. Who is this woman? Why has she brought him here? Where is here?
The woman slowly raises her head, sitting up in her throne, and Willy is shocked by what he sees. The woman reveals her identity to be none other than... Shannan Lerch. Willy stares at Shannan with his eyes wide and his mouth agape. After several moments pass he finally snaps out of his trance and stammers the first words that come to mind.
Jam Willy: "Y-you? It's you? Don't you announce my matches in Dub-See-Eff?"
She-devil Shannan appears disgusted that the hairy clod cannot even remember her name. She reaches to the side of her throne and picks up a trident, or three-pronged spear, and holds it up in front of her. The metallic prongs have been sharpened and shined and they gleam in the firelight. Shannan holds the trident up to Jam Willy's throat, threatening him with it. Jam Willy gulps hard. He's not scared of dying, but between the shock from the situation and the heat from those damned flames... he's not feeling comfortable right now.
Shannan Lerch: "I want you to kneel, Jam Willy. Kneel at my feet like a good servant."
Shannan motions for Jam Willy to do as such with her trident, but Jam Willy hesitates.
Jam Willy: "Uh, do you mean your hooves?"
Shannan: "Yes! Now do it! Kneel at my feet!"
Shannan threatens him again by holding those razor-sharp prongs up to his throat, but she relents, allowing him to kneel before her. Once Willy has humbled himself by kneeling, Shannan rises to her feet and raises her arms above her head.
Shannan: "Jam Willy Jesus, I condemn thee to suffer! I condemn thee to wander this barren land for all eternity! I condemn thee to serve my beck and call, and, Jam Willy... I will spend every waking moment tormenting you until I am satisfied!"
Jam Willy: "Why? Why are you doin' this to me, Sharon?"
Shannan clocks Willy over the head with the shaft of her trident, the force of the blow knocking him to the ground, and nearly knocking him out.
Shannan: "It's Shannan, you imbecile!"
Shannan sits down upon her throne again, presently content with having nearly killed Jam Willy. She playfully kicks at him with a hoof as he recovers on the ground.
Shannan: "I don't like you, Jam Willy. You're a dead beat, a bum... a rotten, filthy, nasty scumbag. Even that Switches the Clown is better than you!"
Willy sits up in a huff on the rock floor.
Jam Willy: "Nah, man! No way! He sucks! I hate that guy!"
Shannan: "Silence, insolent one!"
Shannan threatens with another strike from her trident and Jam Willy recoils in pseudo-horror.
Jam Willy: "Shannan, you have to get me out of here. I'm Jesus. Jesus can't be in no Hell!"
Shannan: "Do you really think it's that easy, Willy? Do you think you can beg your way out of this? After all that you've done, Willy, this is the fate that you have reaped. This is the wage of your sins. You killed your mother. You even admitted it earlier."
Jam Willy stares shamefully at the ground. He has no reply, no retort, no argument that he can use to counter what Shannan is saying.
Shannan: "She's not the only one that you've claimed to love only to exploit for your selfish deeds. It's your fault that Henrietta is dead. You killed her."
Willy looks up at Shannan and glares at her.
Jam Willy: "What the hell are you talkin' 'bout!? I didn't have nothin' to do with that! It was that damn clown that done killed Henrietta!"
Shannan pouts in mock pity for Jam Willy.
Shannan: "Oh sure... blame the clown. Except... where were you while the clown was performing his homicidal rampage on your beloved pick-up truck? You should have been there for her but you abandoned her so that you could drink your responsibilities away with your buddy Jack Daniels. You left Henriette all alone. You left her to die. Your truck is dead because of you!"
Jam Willy: "Now you wait just a cotton-pickin' minute now, you bitch!"
Willy rises to his feet, only to immediately be kicked in the groin by a precisely aimed hoof, dropping him to the ground while he clutches at his manhood. Willy rolls onto his stomach and hoists his keister into the air, trying to alleviate the pressure on his groin.
Shannan: "Tsk, tsk, Willy... you were going to hurt me just now. I'm not going to become your next victim. I'm not going to end up like Mama and Henrietta. You're on MY turf, Willy!"
Shannan jabs Willy in the ass with the tri-pronged head of her trident. Willy yelps out in pain.
Jam Willy: "Ouch, you stupid bitch, that hurt!"
Shannan cackles gleefully and jabs Willy in the ass with her trident once again.
Jam Willy: "I said OUCH!"
Again and again, Shannan jabs Jam Willy's ass with the business end of her trident. Willy closes his eyes and grits his teeth as he takes the abuse like only a tough, raised-right, country boy from North Dakota can. After awhile, the cackling stops. The jabbing stops. The pain dissipates. The heat turns to cold. The smell of sulfur and death gives way to brats and burgers... and cheesesteak. A bright light shines in Jam Willy's eyes and he opens them, holding a hand up as a shield... against the sun. Willy blinks his eyes a few times and studies his surroundings.
He finds himself lying on a cold, concrete sidewalk in front of a huge building, a sporting venue of sorts. He looks closer at the building and sees the words "Wells Fargo Arena" in big, bold letters on the side of the building. Willy slowly rises to his feet and brushes himself off. He's wearing the same clothes that he was wearing at Ray's Bar... the same clothes that he was wearing in his dream... or was it reality? Regardless, Jam Willy Jesus has arrived at Wells Fargo Arena in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania on the day of One without any recollection of how he arrived here.
Jam Willy: "How the fuck did I get here? Is Philly Hell? Goddamn... what was in that drink that chick bought me?"
Willy's head is aching. He massages his scalp with his hands while trying to make sense of his situation. That chick... that chick... that chick was Shannan Lerch! He remembers now. He still can't make sense of what happened, but at least he has a clue. As fate, or coincidence, would have it, Jam Willy spots Shannan out of the corner of his eye. She's walking toward the entrance of the arena, no doubt on her way to prepare for WCF's biggest night of the year. Jam Willy needs to know whether everything that happened to him was a dream or whether it was reality. Some strange, unexplainable reality. Willy runs over to Shannan to catch up with her and then taps her on the shoulder, just as she's opening the door to enter the building. Shannan looks at Jam Willy and screams.
Shannan: "Help! Security! A hobo is trying to rape me!"
Jam Willy: "No, no, Shannan! I'm a wrestler! It's Jam Willy!"
After a few moments Shannan gradually ceases struggling as she begins to recognize him.
Shannan: "Oh... Jam Willy! It's you! God... you look like shit!"
Jam Willy: "Yeah, well, I had a rough night. Can you do me a favor?"
Shannan: "Well, I guess you can use the shower in my dressing room. Just don't clog the drain with your hair!"
Jam Willy: "No, no, it's not that. I need you to take your shoes off for me."
Shannan appears bewildered by Willy's request.
Shannan: "What? I mean, that's kind of strange, Willy..."
Sensing that this is getting him nowhere, Willy tries a different approach.
Jam Willy: "You heard me, she-devil! Take off your shoes! Show me your hooves!"
Willy reaches down and grabs Shannan's left foot. He tries to yank the high heel right off her foot while she struggles against him, fighting him tooth and nail all the way.
Shannan: "Get your hands off of me, you creep!"
Jam Willy finally pulls the heel off of Shannan's foot, revealing that she does in fact have a normal female human foot, with five toes painted red, just as he likes them. Willy breathes a sigh of relief before Shannan kicks him in the nuts with her bare foot and yanks her heel from his clutches. She slides her shoe back on and runs away inside the arena while Willy grabs at his junk and falls to the ground, the pain overwhelming him.
Jam Willy: "AAAAARRRRRRGHHWOOOOOGHHHHH!!!!! (or something to that effect)"
As Jam Willy continues his imitation of the mating sounds of the male humpback whale, none other than Hank Brown stumbles upon him, with microphone and cameraman in tow. Hank has a cheesy smile plastered on his face and a cheesy suit plastered on his body.
Hank Brown: "Hey! It's Jam Willy Jesus! What cha doin' down there, Jam Willy?"
Hank smiles, almost sadistically but still cheesily, at Willy.
Jam Willy: [under his breath] "Oh fuck this guy..."
Jam Willy sits up on the ground, still holding his aching nuts.
Jam Willy: "I'm dyin', Hank. That's what I'm doin' down here. There's your scoop, would you mind leavin' me be now?"
Hank: "Don't be silly, Willy! Here-- let me give you a hand."
Hank extends his hand to Willy and Willy... grudgingly accepts as Hank helps him back to his feet.
Jam Willy: "Well, gee, thanks, Hank. I'll be on my way now."
Willy turns, nuts still sore as fuck, and starts to walk away...
Hank: "Whoa. You really look like shit, Willy."
Hank sniffs at Willy's person.
Hank: "Did you sleep in a dumpster last night?"
Willy takes offense at the line of questioning and the overall intrusion by WCF's resident interviewer, but he politely answers Hank anyway.
Jam Willy: "As a matter of fact I'm not sure where the hell I slept last night or even if there was a last night, but thank you for your concern. Now what the fuck do you want?"
Hank: "Whoa, calm down, buddy!"
Jam Willy: "I'm not yer damn buddy! I have a match to prepare for today or tomorrow or whenever Sunday is, and if you think I'm just gonna stand here and shoot the shit with you then you're out of your cotton-pickin' mind!"
Hank leans in close to Willy, as Willy eyes him suspiciously.
Hank: [whispering into Willy's ear] "If you don't answer at least one match-related question for me, on camera, then you don't get paid. That's how this works, asshole."
Hank flashes that cheesy smile at Willy. Willy glares at him, looking like he wants to do to Hank what he did to Switches in that men's room a few weeks back.
Jam Willy: "Alright, Hank. Ask your question. One question. Make it a good one."
Hank holds that ol' trademark microphone up to his mouth and flashes that ol' trademark... well, cheesy smile into the camera.
Hank: "I think it's obvious, Willy, that there's one thing that everybody wants to know: What are your thoughts as you head into your match against Switches the Clown at One in a no holds barred Philadelphia street fight?"
Jam Willy pauses for a moment to consider his answer before replying.
Jam Willy: "Hank, I cannot live with this hatred and blood lust that's inside of meh anymore. This is the end game. Tonight, Switches the Clown must not be allowed to walk out of One. I have a responsibili-teh to socie-teh to make sure that Switches never terrorizes anyone ever again. I cannot fail, and I will not fail. Tonight, Switches the Clown will meet his demise in a most brutal fashion. Switches, you are... a dead clown walkin'. Now stick that in yer crack pipe and smoke it, ya prick!"
Willy glares into the camera for a hearty moment before walking away. Hank signals cut. The image fades. We're out. Peace. Grab your popcorn and enjoy the show tonight.
