Post by Deleted on Jan 25, 2014 20:35:50 GMT -5
A thick fog settles over the outstretched land of Waylon Cash. The sun rises just above the treetops, bathing the scenery in the light of a new day. Silence hovers over the landscape, the only sound being the scraping of a knife feverishly carving Jonny Fly's name into a wooden post. Waylon Cash stands on the foundation of his future home, large knife in his hand. He hacks away at the wood, writing Fly's name big enough to cover the rest of his list of future victims. With his bloodshot eyes, Waylon finishes with the knife, and slides it into the holster near his boot. He gives the carving a tired but prideful smile, before sitting down, and leaning against a different post. He rests his hands on his knees, as he stares out at the early morning scene.
Waylon:Just like a paintin'...
Before Waylon can finish whatever though he may have had, a rumbling comes from beneath him. Slowly, a square of concrete moves, allowing a bare bones elevator to rise from the ground. Inside is Scott Savage, dressed in his signature ebony and crimson suit. He gives his client a grin, before stepping out onto the concrete.
Scott:Did you even go to bed last night?
Waylon:Tried. Couldn't sleep.
Scott:Roxxanne left at the worst possible time. Maybe we should call her back.
Waylon:Naw, let her do her thing. I'll be fine. Besides, she's done in a few weeks. Where you headed off to anyway?
Scott:Well, I had a flight back to New Jersey scheduled, but I'm thinking it can wait.
Waylon:No, knock it off. I don't need a damn babysitter. Go take care of your business.
Scott:I'm really not sure the timing is exac-
Waylon:Jesus! What are you afraid of anyway? You think I'm gonna relapse? You think I'm that weak?
Scott:It isn't about weak or strong. Addiction is very serious, and I am not interested in risking your safety.
Waylon:I'll be just fine Beast. You don't gotta go worryin' about me. I'm just gonna stay here and train for my match with Fly. That's all I got time to worry about this week anyway.
Scott gives him a skeptical look, before nodding.
Scott:Alright then. I will be back in time to fly you out to Payback. Just make sure you are ready to do your job once we get there.
Waylon:You just worry about your other clients. Make sure Benjy walks out with the US title, and make sure your new girl doesn't lose to the sad little burrito boy. Then we can talk about my match.
Scott:The attitude is unwarranted. I want that belt, Waylon... and you had better get it for me.
With a look of incredulity, Waylon rises to his feet, and quickly approaches his manager. He stops when they are all but nose to nose, and glares at the much taller man.
Waylon:This ain't about you. This ain't even about S-PAC anymore, you dig? This is about me. This is about Waylon fuckin' Cash finally takin' out Jonny Fly, and putting the WCF world title back where it belongs.
Scott chuckles, and steps back, while giving his client an impressed grin.
Scott:If that is how you want it... fine. Jonny Fly is all yours. I won't even accompany you to your match. I will say this though... you had better win. If you lose this one, we're going to have problems.
Waylon is left to wonder what Scott means, as the manager climbs into the driver's side of his black SUV, and fires up the engine with a mighty roar. He speeds down Waylon's long driveway, leaving the wrestler standing in the early morning fog. His eye twitches slightly, as thoughts begin to flood his brain. Images of what he's done, predictions of what he must now do. S-PAC, Fly, Scott, Roxxanne, retirement. It all swirls around him, the pressure building in his mind. Eventually it grows to be too much, and pushes him to his knees. He lets out a primal scream, before wrenching off his white tank top, and removing his cowboy boots. Jumping to his feet, Waylon begins to sprint off across the flat prairie that makes up his land.
The soles of his bare feet pound against the wet grass as he propels himself into the hazy morning. His lungs cry out in pain, but he keeps pushing, trying his best to ignore the screaming of his body. The pressure chases him, but he just throws one foot in front of the other, praying that his muscles don't give out on him. He can't allow the pressure to catch him. With every fiber in his being, he must flee. The ache in his lungs makes it incredibly difficult, but he shoves his way through the wall. Eventually, a fresh surge of adrenaline flows through his body, taking his agony away completely. He continues the run with a smile on his face, and sweat dripping from the tip of his nose. The pressure has disappeared now, refusing to continue the futile chase.
Waylon looks to his left as he passes a grouping of trees, and sees a family of deer poking their heads out of the foliage. They watch him pass, but decide not to leave the protective cover of the forest. He continues on his way, making a full circle back to the concrete block that will one day sit beneath his house. Once he reaches his destination, he drops to his knees, and begins weeping uncontrollably. Tears stain the cement beneath him, as he begins speaking to himself. It is quiet at first, but slowly grows to a scream.
Waylon:It's not enough... it's not enough...it's not enough... IT'S NOT ENOUGH! GOD DAMMIT!
He punches away at the concrete, eventually opening a gash in his knuckle. Crimson splatters across the gray, as he continues slamming his fist into the foundation. At one point the pain catches up with him, and he stops swinging, but the tears continue stronger than ever. He slumps down across the steps, and stares off at the horizon line. He says nothing. The tears eventually slow, and then stop altogether. When they are done, he sits himself up, and stares down at the grass. And almost inaudible whisper escapes Waylon's throat, but he doesn't notice. He thinks the conversation is only in his head.
Waylon:What the fuck am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to beat Jonny Fly like this? Roxxy's gone, Scott's gone, I'm still dealin' with withdrawals... I don't think I can do it. It's too fuckin' much.
The Wrestler's train of thought is interrupted by a beeping from his phone. He pulls the device from his pocket, and checks the new text message.
Sent by Jeremy Risner. 8:37 am. Waylon. Sry about what happened. It shouldn't have got that heated. I don't wanna lose a good friend and customer. Hit me back brother.
Waylon stares at the message for at least ten minutes. Outside he is silent and still. Inside he is a raging vortex of arguments and emotions, few of which he can decipher properly in his current state. The pressure returns. Only this time it circles around him, giving him no route for escape.
Waylon:I'll call Trent. He'll help me.
Waylon flips through his phone book, before tapping Trent's name, and pressing the phone to his ear. Only ringing comes form the other end.
Waylon:Pick up you son of a bitch!
Shockingly, Waylon's anger does nothing to the state of the call. When the voicemail comes on Waylon jams the phone back in his pocket, and tries his best to block out the wave of doubt and anger that rushes over him, but he still feels it coarse through his veins, weighing down his very soul. In his turmoil, he looks down at his phone, and types out a short message.
I'll be omw to your place in a few.
He hits send, and then opens the camera function. Cash presses record, and leans the phone against a post. For a while he merely stares into the lens, letting it record his blank face. When he speaks, it is in the tired monotone of a broken man.
Waylon: People don't understand. I got all kindsa people getting' at me on Twitter, Facebook, on my phone, and they all wanna know why this is so god damn important. They wanna know why I'm willin' to drive myself insane for this. They all think it's about the title, and yeah, that's part of it. Only a small part though. See, I been in this company almost two years now. This was supposed to be my big comeback, and for the most part it's gone well. There's just one problem... you. See, since the very beginin', I ain't been able to beat you. You whooped my ass every time. You're the one that took the title from me the first time. You're a constant reminder that I'm not where I wanna be, and it makes me sick. It's all I can think about, and it's gotta end.
Waylon takes his eyes off the camera, to take a look down his long, winding driveway. When he sees no one coming, he turns his attention back to the speech.
Waylon:This Sunday, I'm takin' that belt back, but that's the last thing I'm worried about. At Payback, I get the chance to finally take out my white whale. I ain't fightin' you, Jonny... I'm fightin' a demon. I'm fightin' a demon that won't let my career be until I finally beat you. Once I do... everything's gonna be all better. I'll have my belt back, and S-PAC will be where we belong again... at the top. But in order to get there, in order to find my heaven, I gotta drag my ass through hell. I gotta face down the one thing keepin' me from that next level... the thing that's been keepin' me from that level for the last two years. I gotta finish off Jonny Fly.
Waylon moves his tongue around in his mouth, fiddling with a bit of food from breakfast stuck between his teeth. Once he loosens it, he seems to realize he's in the middle of something, and looks back at the camera.
Waylon:Now, I ain't sayin' you can't be beat. It's happened before. I just ain't ever been able to do it. That streak ends at Payback. You gotta understand Jonny, this ain't about what I wanna see happen. This is about what has to happen. There's no other choice. This week, I have to beat you. It doesn't matter if I expend every ounce of life inside me, and die after they count the three. My entire life is a waste of time if I can't beat you. Jon boy... this ain't just about a losin' streak. I'm sure you knew that by now though. You gotta understand somethin'. When I first signed on to be a wrestler, I didn't see myself as the broken old farm hand. I never saw myself as this guy. I saw you. In my day dreams I was the suave, successful ladies man who could have anything he wanted at the snap of his fingers. Now obviously, that didn't happen for me. It happened for you though, didn't it Jon boy?
Waylon gives the camera a resentful glare, before pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He slips one between his lips, and lights it quickly. He takes a deep drag, savoring the feeling of the nicotine flowing through his blood stream before exhaling. Afterword, he spends a few moments staring off into the distance, a bitter sneer seemingly permanently plastered across his face.
Waylon:You're everything I ever wanted to be, and everything I'm not. Smart, charrmin', successful. You got a real pretty face, while I'm stuck with this ugly mug. On paper, it's pretty obvious who the better man is. There's somethin' you don't got though. You don't got the need like I do. This Sunday's another title defense for you. You're gonna walk in champion, and try your damndest to walk out as champion, and I respect that, but I need to win. Everything I am rides on this match. I need to win because I need to prove to myself that I'm better than what I wanted to be. I gotta show the whole world that I've beaten my own dreams. If I can't do that, then I'm a damn failure.
As Waylon takes another drag from his cigarette, the camera catches a glimpse of the blood smeared across his knuckles. Pain pulses in his hand, but Waylon ignores it, and soldiers on. The white stick dangles from between his lips, bobbing up and down as he speaks.
Waylon:The bottom line is that you wanna win. And you may wanna win really bad... but I can't lose. I don't have a choice. It's a scary spot to be in, but it gives me an edge that you can't match. That's why I'm gonna win. It's a sickness at this point Jonny. It's an obsession that ain't left me alone since you took my title. It's eatin' away at me, and if I don't kill it at Payback, it might just kill me. I can't let that happen. Waylon Cash doesn't die... he brings death. He ends careers. He fights demons and comes out the other side without a scratch. Waylon Cash does all those things, and not only that, but when the chips are down, and it's do or die, I guarantee you... Waylon Cash beats Jonny Fly.
He takes another drag, and blows a few smoke rings into the air above him. He watches them slowly disappear, before turning his attention back to the camera.
Waylon:I'd like to make a humble request, Jon boy. If by some miracle you beat me again, if somehow you pull out the win against this hateful monster of a man... all I ask is that you end my career. I can't live with this, Jonny. I can't live with this obsession inside me. If I lose at Payback, I want that to be the end, so please... PLEASE... if you beat me... make sure I never step into the ring again. Take this cup of poison from me, and do the right thing, cure me of my sickness. Only you can do it. Only the great Jonny Fly can do what needs to be done. One thing is for sure... once Payback is over, this demon inside my head needs to be gone. Whether I kill it by finally beatin' you, or you kill it by puttin' me outta my misery, it needs to die. So please... if you win, be the better man and do the right thing... end it.
Waylon glares into the lens, as if it were Jonny Fly himself. For a split second, he thinks he sees Jonny's face in the reflection of his phone, but he quickly turns his head away to take another puff from his cigarette. The smoke fills his lungs, doing nothing to calm his shaking hand.
Waylon:That's all I really got to say Jonny. I'm gonna see you on Sunday, and after the bell rings, one of us is gonna be the WCF champ, and one of us won't. It's really as simple as that. All this talk, all this nonsense ain't shit. What matters is what sort of men step between the ropes at Payback. What matters is whose shoulders are on the mat when the ref counts three. What matters is action... not words. We'll see what kind of man you are this Sunday. Are you the kinda primpin', preenin' jackass I used to think you were, or are you the calm, collected killin' machine I know you are. I want you to bring the fight Jonny. I want everything you got, because at the end of the match, if I don't feel like I been through all nine circles of hell and back... I'll know you bitched out, and I ain't gonna be too happy. To steal a stupid phrase from my cousin, you gotta come correct if you wanna stand toe to toe with me. We'll see if you got that inside you, because I think you do. I can't wait.
Waylon tosses his cigarette out into the yard, and stares off into the distance for a few moments. He then grabs the phone, and stands to his feet. He smiles wide into the lens, and gives one last thought.
Waylon:This one's gonna be fun.
As soon as Waylon stops the recording, his smile disappears. He slides the phone into his pocket, and immediately begins jogging across the grass. He climbs into the driver's side of his purple Lincoln, and turns it on. It isn't long before he's speeding off down the driveway leaving his land in serene silence once again.
___ _ _ _ ____ _ _ ________
(Epilogue)
In downtown Macon Georgia, Jeremy Risner, Waylon's former drug dealer sits on his threadbare couch. At the same time, three blocks away, Waylon's friend Trent Page throws a shirt on over his bare torso, and steps out of the steamy bathroom. He uses his towel to soak up some of the water left over in his ears, and tosses it on top of an overflowing hamper. A knock comes at each door simultaneously. Jeremy signals for his large bodyguard to check the door, while Trent opens his himself. When the door to Jeremy's house swings open, there is a small, dark haired man who looks like he hasn't slept in weeks. The bodyguard quickly ushers him in, and shuts the door. Meanwhile, Trent throws open the entrance to his apartment to see a frightened, shaking Waylon Cash. Trent gives him a look of confusion. Waylon gives him a half hearted smile.
Waylon:I need help.
Trent only nods, and motions for the wrestler to enter.
To Be Continued...
Waylon:Just like a paintin'...
Before Waylon can finish whatever though he may have had, a rumbling comes from beneath him. Slowly, a square of concrete moves, allowing a bare bones elevator to rise from the ground. Inside is Scott Savage, dressed in his signature ebony and crimson suit. He gives his client a grin, before stepping out onto the concrete.
Scott:Did you even go to bed last night?
Waylon:Tried. Couldn't sleep.
Scott:Roxxanne left at the worst possible time. Maybe we should call her back.
Waylon:Naw, let her do her thing. I'll be fine. Besides, she's done in a few weeks. Where you headed off to anyway?
Scott:Well, I had a flight back to New Jersey scheduled, but I'm thinking it can wait.
Waylon:No, knock it off. I don't need a damn babysitter. Go take care of your business.
Scott:I'm really not sure the timing is exac-
Waylon:Jesus! What are you afraid of anyway? You think I'm gonna relapse? You think I'm that weak?
Scott:It isn't about weak or strong. Addiction is very serious, and I am not interested in risking your safety.
Waylon:I'll be just fine Beast. You don't gotta go worryin' about me. I'm just gonna stay here and train for my match with Fly. That's all I got time to worry about this week anyway.
Scott gives him a skeptical look, before nodding.
Scott:Alright then. I will be back in time to fly you out to Payback. Just make sure you are ready to do your job once we get there.
Waylon:You just worry about your other clients. Make sure Benjy walks out with the US title, and make sure your new girl doesn't lose to the sad little burrito boy. Then we can talk about my match.
Scott:The attitude is unwarranted. I want that belt, Waylon... and you had better get it for me.
With a look of incredulity, Waylon rises to his feet, and quickly approaches his manager. He stops when they are all but nose to nose, and glares at the much taller man.
Waylon:This ain't about you. This ain't even about S-PAC anymore, you dig? This is about me. This is about Waylon fuckin' Cash finally takin' out Jonny Fly, and putting the WCF world title back where it belongs.
Scott chuckles, and steps back, while giving his client an impressed grin.
Scott:If that is how you want it... fine. Jonny Fly is all yours. I won't even accompany you to your match. I will say this though... you had better win. If you lose this one, we're going to have problems.
Waylon is left to wonder what Scott means, as the manager climbs into the driver's side of his black SUV, and fires up the engine with a mighty roar. He speeds down Waylon's long driveway, leaving the wrestler standing in the early morning fog. His eye twitches slightly, as thoughts begin to flood his brain. Images of what he's done, predictions of what he must now do. S-PAC, Fly, Scott, Roxxanne, retirement. It all swirls around him, the pressure building in his mind. Eventually it grows to be too much, and pushes him to his knees. He lets out a primal scream, before wrenching off his white tank top, and removing his cowboy boots. Jumping to his feet, Waylon begins to sprint off across the flat prairie that makes up his land.
The soles of his bare feet pound against the wet grass as he propels himself into the hazy morning. His lungs cry out in pain, but he keeps pushing, trying his best to ignore the screaming of his body. The pressure chases him, but he just throws one foot in front of the other, praying that his muscles don't give out on him. He can't allow the pressure to catch him. With every fiber in his being, he must flee. The ache in his lungs makes it incredibly difficult, but he shoves his way through the wall. Eventually, a fresh surge of adrenaline flows through his body, taking his agony away completely. He continues the run with a smile on his face, and sweat dripping from the tip of his nose. The pressure has disappeared now, refusing to continue the futile chase.
Waylon looks to his left as he passes a grouping of trees, and sees a family of deer poking their heads out of the foliage. They watch him pass, but decide not to leave the protective cover of the forest. He continues on his way, making a full circle back to the concrete block that will one day sit beneath his house. Once he reaches his destination, he drops to his knees, and begins weeping uncontrollably. Tears stain the cement beneath him, as he begins speaking to himself. It is quiet at first, but slowly grows to a scream.
Waylon:It's not enough... it's not enough...it's not enough... IT'S NOT ENOUGH! GOD DAMMIT!
He punches away at the concrete, eventually opening a gash in his knuckle. Crimson splatters across the gray, as he continues slamming his fist into the foundation. At one point the pain catches up with him, and he stops swinging, but the tears continue stronger than ever. He slumps down across the steps, and stares off at the horizon line. He says nothing. The tears eventually slow, and then stop altogether. When they are done, he sits himself up, and stares down at the grass. And almost inaudible whisper escapes Waylon's throat, but he doesn't notice. He thinks the conversation is only in his head.
Waylon:What the fuck am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to beat Jonny Fly like this? Roxxy's gone, Scott's gone, I'm still dealin' with withdrawals... I don't think I can do it. It's too fuckin' much.
The Wrestler's train of thought is interrupted by a beeping from his phone. He pulls the device from his pocket, and checks the new text message.
Sent by Jeremy Risner. 8:37 am. Waylon. Sry about what happened. It shouldn't have got that heated. I don't wanna lose a good friend and customer. Hit me back brother.
Waylon stares at the message for at least ten minutes. Outside he is silent and still. Inside he is a raging vortex of arguments and emotions, few of which he can decipher properly in his current state. The pressure returns. Only this time it circles around him, giving him no route for escape.
Waylon:I'll call Trent. He'll help me.
Waylon flips through his phone book, before tapping Trent's name, and pressing the phone to his ear. Only ringing comes form the other end.
Waylon:Pick up you son of a bitch!
Shockingly, Waylon's anger does nothing to the state of the call. When the voicemail comes on Waylon jams the phone back in his pocket, and tries his best to block out the wave of doubt and anger that rushes over him, but he still feels it coarse through his veins, weighing down his very soul. In his turmoil, he looks down at his phone, and types out a short message.
I'll be omw to your place in a few.
He hits send, and then opens the camera function. Cash presses record, and leans the phone against a post. For a while he merely stares into the lens, letting it record his blank face. When he speaks, it is in the tired monotone of a broken man.
Waylon: People don't understand. I got all kindsa people getting' at me on Twitter, Facebook, on my phone, and they all wanna know why this is so god damn important. They wanna know why I'm willin' to drive myself insane for this. They all think it's about the title, and yeah, that's part of it. Only a small part though. See, I been in this company almost two years now. This was supposed to be my big comeback, and for the most part it's gone well. There's just one problem... you. See, since the very beginin', I ain't been able to beat you. You whooped my ass every time. You're the one that took the title from me the first time. You're a constant reminder that I'm not where I wanna be, and it makes me sick. It's all I can think about, and it's gotta end.
Waylon takes his eyes off the camera, to take a look down his long, winding driveway. When he sees no one coming, he turns his attention back to the speech.
Waylon:This Sunday, I'm takin' that belt back, but that's the last thing I'm worried about. At Payback, I get the chance to finally take out my white whale. I ain't fightin' you, Jonny... I'm fightin' a demon. I'm fightin' a demon that won't let my career be until I finally beat you. Once I do... everything's gonna be all better. I'll have my belt back, and S-PAC will be where we belong again... at the top. But in order to get there, in order to find my heaven, I gotta drag my ass through hell. I gotta face down the one thing keepin' me from that next level... the thing that's been keepin' me from that level for the last two years. I gotta finish off Jonny Fly.
Waylon moves his tongue around in his mouth, fiddling with a bit of food from breakfast stuck between his teeth. Once he loosens it, he seems to realize he's in the middle of something, and looks back at the camera.
Waylon:Now, I ain't sayin' you can't be beat. It's happened before. I just ain't ever been able to do it. That streak ends at Payback. You gotta understand Jonny, this ain't about what I wanna see happen. This is about what has to happen. There's no other choice. This week, I have to beat you. It doesn't matter if I expend every ounce of life inside me, and die after they count the three. My entire life is a waste of time if I can't beat you. Jon boy... this ain't just about a losin' streak. I'm sure you knew that by now though. You gotta understand somethin'. When I first signed on to be a wrestler, I didn't see myself as the broken old farm hand. I never saw myself as this guy. I saw you. In my day dreams I was the suave, successful ladies man who could have anything he wanted at the snap of his fingers. Now obviously, that didn't happen for me. It happened for you though, didn't it Jon boy?
Waylon gives the camera a resentful glare, before pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He slips one between his lips, and lights it quickly. He takes a deep drag, savoring the feeling of the nicotine flowing through his blood stream before exhaling. Afterword, he spends a few moments staring off into the distance, a bitter sneer seemingly permanently plastered across his face.
Waylon:You're everything I ever wanted to be, and everything I'm not. Smart, charrmin', successful. You got a real pretty face, while I'm stuck with this ugly mug. On paper, it's pretty obvious who the better man is. There's somethin' you don't got though. You don't got the need like I do. This Sunday's another title defense for you. You're gonna walk in champion, and try your damndest to walk out as champion, and I respect that, but I need to win. Everything I am rides on this match. I need to win because I need to prove to myself that I'm better than what I wanted to be. I gotta show the whole world that I've beaten my own dreams. If I can't do that, then I'm a damn failure.
As Waylon takes another drag from his cigarette, the camera catches a glimpse of the blood smeared across his knuckles. Pain pulses in his hand, but Waylon ignores it, and soldiers on. The white stick dangles from between his lips, bobbing up and down as he speaks.
Waylon:The bottom line is that you wanna win. And you may wanna win really bad... but I can't lose. I don't have a choice. It's a scary spot to be in, but it gives me an edge that you can't match. That's why I'm gonna win. It's a sickness at this point Jonny. It's an obsession that ain't left me alone since you took my title. It's eatin' away at me, and if I don't kill it at Payback, it might just kill me. I can't let that happen. Waylon Cash doesn't die... he brings death. He ends careers. He fights demons and comes out the other side without a scratch. Waylon Cash does all those things, and not only that, but when the chips are down, and it's do or die, I guarantee you... Waylon Cash beats Jonny Fly.
He takes another drag, and blows a few smoke rings into the air above him. He watches them slowly disappear, before turning his attention back to the camera.
Waylon:I'd like to make a humble request, Jon boy. If by some miracle you beat me again, if somehow you pull out the win against this hateful monster of a man... all I ask is that you end my career. I can't live with this, Jonny. I can't live with this obsession inside me. If I lose at Payback, I want that to be the end, so please... PLEASE... if you beat me... make sure I never step into the ring again. Take this cup of poison from me, and do the right thing, cure me of my sickness. Only you can do it. Only the great Jonny Fly can do what needs to be done. One thing is for sure... once Payback is over, this demon inside my head needs to be gone. Whether I kill it by finally beatin' you, or you kill it by puttin' me outta my misery, it needs to die. So please... if you win, be the better man and do the right thing... end it.
Waylon glares into the lens, as if it were Jonny Fly himself. For a split second, he thinks he sees Jonny's face in the reflection of his phone, but he quickly turns his head away to take another puff from his cigarette. The smoke fills his lungs, doing nothing to calm his shaking hand.
Waylon:That's all I really got to say Jonny. I'm gonna see you on Sunday, and after the bell rings, one of us is gonna be the WCF champ, and one of us won't. It's really as simple as that. All this talk, all this nonsense ain't shit. What matters is what sort of men step between the ropes at Payback. What matters is whose shoulders are on the mat when the ref counts three. What matters is action... not words. We'll see what kind of man you are this Sunday. Are you the kinda primpin', preenin' jackass I used to think you were, or are you the calm, collected killin' machine I know you are. I want you to bring the fight Jonny. I want everything you got, because at the end of the match, if I don't feel like I been through all nine circles of hell and back... I'll know you bitched out, and I ain't gonna be too happy. To steal a stupid phrase from my cousin, you gotta come correct if you wanna stand toe to toe with me. We'll see if you got that inside you, because I think you do. I can't wait.
Waylon tosses his cigarette out into the yard, and stares off into the distance for a few moments. He then grabs the phone, and stands to his feet. He smiles wide into the lens, and gives one last thought.
Waylon:This one's gonna be fun.
As soon as Waylon stops the recording, his smile disappears. He slides the phone into his pocket, and immediately begins jogging across the grass. He climbs into the driver's side of his purple Lincoln, and turns it on. It isn't long before he's speeding off down the driveway leaving his land in serene silence once again.
___ _ _ _ ____ _ _ ________
(Epilogue)
In downtown Macon Georgia, Jeremy Risner, Waylon's former drug dealer sits on his threadbare couch. At the same time, three blocks away, Waylon's friend Trent Page throws a shirt on over his bare torso, and steps out of the steamy bathroom. He uses his towel to soak up some of the water left over in his ears, and tosses it on top of an overflowing hamper. A knock comes at each door simultaneously. Jeremy signals for his large bodyguard to check the door, while Trent opens his himself. When the door to Jeremy's house swings open, there is a small, dark haired man who looks like he hasn't slept in weeks. The bodyguard quickly ushers him in, and shuts the door. Meanwhile, Trent throws open the entrance to his apartment to see a frightened, shaking Waylon Cash. Trent gives him a look of confusion. Waylon gives him a half hearted smile.
Waylon:I need help.
Trent only nods, and motions for the wrestler to enter.
To Be Continued...
