Post by Deleted on Jan 15, 2014 3:00:37 GMT -5
It had been two weeks since the passing of his father. As Mod had done while mourning the loss of his truck, he once again went on an absolute fuck-fest in Thailand after following through on the wishes of his father. He had scattered the ashes of his father in the Gulf of Tonkin, before making his way to Bangkok to pursue whores.
The whole trip was absolutely insane. Fueled by booze that is probably illegal in every state, he destroyed everything in his path. Ladies were now dealing with gaping holes that would probably never be right again. Several were unable to "shit right for a week", as he put it. And there were a few men that had tried to take advantage of the young and naive Mod through confidence schemes and outright larceny, only to find themselves retiring to a bed in the E.R. for their troubles. Needless to say, it was a tremendous vacation. One that Mod did not want to leave.
But now he found himself inside of a new Peterbilt, built to his specifications. Instead of the black finish he once had, he had requested a pale color instead. It seemed fitting, since everything around him as of late was keeling over and dying.
Wrestling didn't seem much fun anymore. After all, he had lost his first truck and his father because of these endeavors associated with the so-called sport. Roger had taken off, probably in pursuit of more monsters. Instead of joining him, in order to keep appearances up, he instead returned to Detroit for his funeral and wake. Very few people attended the funeral. Only old war buddies from Vietnam that were still alive and Hunters were in attended the funeral. Not even Sean or Aunt Audrey attended.
Upon the reading of his father's Last Will and Testament, Mod found that his father's final wishes were to have his ashes scattered in the Gulf of Tonkin for reasons unknown. Perhaps it was the fact that the only place his father ever said that he felt right was during the war. It was as if he was made to fight in that war, and that was all he was suited for in this life. Everything else, he had once said, felt forced, difficult. Perhaps that was why he had a drinking problem since the war. Not because of PTSD, but maybe the struggles of life AFTER the war that he had difficulty living with.
Mod crossed into New Mexico, en route to Richmond, Virginia to catch up with the WCF Tour. Plenty had occured while he was gone. Caleb Fourchon, the Television Champion, had forced the WCF officials to count Mod out of the match. Mod shook his head at the absurdity of that particular decision. He knew that Caleb was petty, but this was a whole new low for the guy who couldn't speak actual English intelligible enough for 95% of Americans. Hell, more people in Thailand who spoke English on a sporadic basis spoke with more intelligence than Caleb! And Caleb had never been outside of the United States, as far as Mod knew.
What Mod really had problems with was the possibility that he may be out of a job once he reached Richmond. He had no idea how Seth Lerch was going to handle his contract. Would he even have a job to come back to? Mod had cost the company a tremendous amount of money so far. The WCF had to replace Mod's truck, even though raYne destroyed the truck. They had paid for his exploits in Nevada during the aftermath. Mod had hospitalized raYne at One, though he kind of got the impression that everyone from the top of the company on down were happy that he had done so. raYne had not done a stellar job making friends, it seemed, and his special friend he has incest dreams about didn't do herself any favors, either. And there was all the heat with Lilith, though that seems to have no bearing on Seth. If anything, Mod's problems with Sarah's chew toy would probably endear him even more with Seth.
Overall, Mod probably shouldn't have anything to worry about, but why did he have this strange feeling in the bottom of his gut that said he should be worried? Was it paranoia? He did show up to the last event he was scheduled for half in the bag. Most wouldn't blame him, but what did Seth Lerch think?
No, this wasn't a work thing. Maybe it was the whole "monster" thing that his father had been rambling on about before he died. The hunt ended well, with his father putting a silver bullet right into the heart of the Shapechanger courtesy of an M-14 sniper rifle. Mod had done his part by blocking off the escape of the monster with his truck, while Roger corralled him with his BMW into a place where the Old Man could have a clear shot at the monster. Overall, it was a great success, until about a half a bottle of The Glenlivet triggered a heart attack that his father was unable to recover from.
Maybe that pit in his stomach was from a whole legion of hunters just getting in line to take a crack at Mod. It was open season on him, and Roger had yet to make an appearance. Perhaps he was moved out of the way so someone could take a clear shot at Mod? This whole "monster" business was making life ugly for Mod.
Then the ironic happened, as "Carry On, Wayward Son" started playing on the radio. His father had said that whenever life got difficult, whether it be for himself or anybody else. It would have been easy to stay in Thailand, drink himself into oblivion and fucked every whore in Thailand each and every day until his money ran out. But while he put his life on pause because of his pain, life moved on, with or without him.
No, Mod MUST move on with life and not be left behind because he felt sorry for himself. There were others in the world that had it harder than him, but they still found the strength to move on. Mod had to do that for himself, as well. Find a way to move on and move up in the WCF. Make himself so well-known that nobody would dare touch him, hunter or wrestler alike. And to do that, he had to step back into the ring.
And there was only 1800 miles between Mod and his return to the WCF...
The whole trip was absolutely insane. Fueled by booze that is probably illegal in every state, he destroyed everything in his path. Ladies were now dealing with gaping holes that would probably never be right again. Several were unable to "shit right for a week", as he put it. And there were a few men that had tried to take advantage of the young and naive Mod through confidence schemes and outright larceny, only to find themselves retiring to a bed in the E.R. for their troubles. Needless to say, it was a tremendous vacation. One that Mod did not want to leave.
But now he found himself inside of a new Peterbilt, built to his specifications. Instead of the black finish he once had, he had requested a pale color instead. It seemed fitting, since everything around him as of late was keeling over and dying.
Wrestling didn't seem much fun anymore. After all, he had lost his first truck and his father because of these endeavors associated with the so-called sport. Roger had taken off, probably in pursuit of more monsters. Instead of joining him, in order to keep appearances up, he instead returned to Detroit for his funeral and wake. Very few people attended the funeral. Only old war buddies from Vietnam that were still alive and Hunters were in attended the funeral. Not even Sean or Aunt Audrey attended.
Upon the reading of his father's Last Will and Testament, Mod found that his father's final wishes were to have his ashes scattered in the Gulf of Tonkin for reasons unknown. Perhaps it was the fact that the only place his father ever said that he felt right was during the war. It was as if he was made to fight in that war, and that was all he was suited for in this life. Everything else, he had once said, felt forced, difficult. Perhaps that was why he had a drinking problem since the war. Not because of PTSD, but maybe the struggles of life AFTER the war that he had difficulty living with.
Mod crossed into New Mexico, en route to Richmond, Virginia to catch up with the WCF Tour. Plenty had occured while he was gone. Caleb Fourchon, the Television Champion, had forced the WCF officials to count Mod out of the match. Mod shook his head at the absurdity of that particular decision. He knew that Caleb was petty, but this was a whole new low for the guy who couldn't speak actual English intelligible enough for 95% of Americans. Hell, more people in Thailand who spoke English on a sporadic basis spoke with more intelligence than Caleb! And Caleb had never been outside of the United States, as far as Mod knew.
What Mod really had problems with was the possibility that he may be out of a job once he reached Richmond. He had no idea how Seth Lerch was going to handle his contract. Would he even have a job to come back to? Mod had cost the company a tremendous amount of money so far. The WCF had to replace Mod's truck, even though raYne destroyed the truck. They had paid for his exploits in Nevada during the aftermath. Mod had hospitalized raYne at One, though he kind of got the impression that everyone from the top of the company on down were happy that he had done so. raYne had not done a stellar job making friends, it seemed, and his special friend he has incest dreams about didn't do herself any favors, either. And there was all the heat with Lilith, though that seems to have no bearing on Seth. If anything, Mod's problems with Sarah's chew toy would probably endear him even more with Seth.
Overall, Mod probably shouldn't have anything to worry about, but why did he have this strange feeling in the bottom of his gut that said he should be worried? Was it paranoia? He did show up to the last event he was scheduled for half in the bag. Most wouldn't blame him, but what did Seth Lerch think?
No, this wasn't a work thing. Maybe it was the whole "monster" thing that his father had been rambling on about before he died. The hunt ended well, with his father putting a silver bullet right into the heart of the Shapechanger courtesy of an M-14 sniper rifle. Mod had done his part by blocking off the escape of the monster with his truck, while Roger corralled him with his BMW into a place where the Old Man could have a clear shot at the monster. Overall, it was a great success, until about a half a bottle of The Glenlivet triggered a heart attack that his father was unable to recover from.
Maybe that pit in his stomach was from a whole legion of hunters just getting in line to take a crack at Mod. It was open season on him, and Roger had yet to make an appearance. Perhaps he was moved out of the way so someone could take a clear shot at Mod? This whole "monster" business was making life ugly for Mod.
Then the ironic happened, as "Carry On, Wayward Son" started playing on the radio. His father had said that whenever life got difficult, whether it be for himself or anybody else. It would have been easy to stay in Thailand, drink himself into oblivion and fucked every whore in Thailand each and every day until his money ran out. But while he put his life on pause because of his pain, life moved on, with or without him.
No, Mod MUST move on with life and not be left behind because he felt sorry for himself. There were others in the world that had it harder than him, but they still found the strength to move on. Mod had to do that for himself, as well. Find a way to move on and move up in the WCF. Make himself so well-known that nobody would dare touch him, hunter or wrestler alike. And to do that, he had to step back into the ring.
And there was only 1800 miles between Mod and his return to the WCF...