Post by Logan on Dec 21, 2011 9:35:34 GMT -5
The Immortal Series Presents…
JARROD BAKER?!
JARROD BAKER?!
To Buddy Baker. My brother and really.. myself. We were similar in too many ways. Bound by blood but in the end a true brother in every meaning of the word, and even with the early absence of Dad you became like a Father. Life is lacking and missing without you. I hope somewhere you can see this in some sort of form… and now that I relive memories – I am truly glad that you took the time to read these deep treasures that I shared. You, also, were a poet, and coming to know that now leads me to miss you even more. You’ll be loved and missed every day. Where the fuck do I go and what the fuck do I do without you?[/i][/blockquote]
It’s 2AM, a bright red florescent glow of numbers annoyingly reveals just that. The clock sits on from what can barely be made out to be a traditional cheap wooden nightstand, shedding off its lone light for the pitch black room. A spark bursts and a fizzy television screen brightens. Just near the white glow a figure is made out inside the weak lightless box of a room. He is a man messily tucked under the blankets of a bed with a remote held in his hand. A red unbuttoned shirt covers his torso with a nametag pinned to it that spells out, “JARROD BAKER”
A concrete man died today. It’s the Friday before Halloween. This was unplanned, it wasn’t meant to happen, but death never really is meant to happen. Buddy was forty-three years old. That’s just twenty years older than myself – which means our Dad was a bit of a manwhore. He had the nuts of a lion. No joke. During elementary school, if someone ever cracked a “daddy” joke, I wouldn’t stand up for him just because he was Dad, no, I stood up for him because he was THE Dad. He was Caucasian, but because he had spent most of his life in the sun his skin color had turned dark brown. He was a proud man. His name was Buddy fuckin’ Baker, and if he had to tell you his name then you would’ve expected to get a sore jaw and a kick in the arse.[/i]
He doesn’t put much thought into what’s playing on the television despite his fixated stare for it. His eyes are too blank for someone to display an interest. They’re too empty. Despite the lack of interest, however, the television noise cannot help but be overheard, and on it is a wrestler named Logan doing a national promo for some type of upcoming national event.
LOGAN: Did that dimwit actually believe that by saying it’d be a death match that I would back out? SHUT UP! That doesn’t scare me one bit. You made your own bed, Bobby Cairo, and now you’ll have to sleep in it literally forever, an eternal rest. That’s damn scary isn’t it – dying – that’s a fear everyone shares. We’re all forced to meet our maker eventually, everyone will, we just never know when. But you have a pretty big advantage over the rest of the world, Bobby. You know the exact date and nearly just about the hour that you will die. Have you scratched off everything on the bucket list yet? You better, Cairo.
I loved him dearly.
The dead stare never shows any hopes of ever coming back to life. Not yet, maybe not ever. The eyes are too lost to find it. The television resumes.
When my Father was the age that I am now he got shot between the eyes while hunting. The bullet broke through his skull and lodged into his brain. He was alone. He was all alone in the middle of the woods, and that would’ve become his enteral resting place had he not had the will to survive. He crawled – he crawled just nearly three agonizing miles with a rifle caliber bullet leaking between the eyes. He crawled out of the woods and into the arms of help, and I’m glad he did because if he hadn’t I wouldn’t have never been born.
LOGAN: Our lives are on the line here which obviously means that a match has never had more at stake for either of us. This is without a doubt the match of your life… or death. And mine too for that matter. I don’t want to die and surely neither do you, who really does, but one of us has to. That’s what it all boils down to – who wants to live more than the other – who has the greater will to survive?
But that isn’t the only reason he was THE Dad. No, a decade or two later, his Son and my dearly recently departed Brother (Buddy Baker Jr) threw a keg party for juniors eighteenth birthday. It was quite a magical gathering from what I have heard. Police came – matter of fact – every officer in Chesapeake, Virginia decided to show up. They got a hold of the birthday boy, Buddy Jr, and clubbed him within an inch of his life. My Father got word of this death sentence that had been dealt to my Brother, and so, my Father, with a bullet still lodged in his head that was too dangerous to remove, grabbed a policemen’s gun and tossed it to the bushes. He then proceeded to close quarters combat-like the rest of the officers occupying the yard and created a pile of guns for the nearby bushes.[/i]
He rolls over within the nest of comfortable looking blankets that assumedly fail to serve their purpose and warm the cold broken soul.
This more than certainly created a spotlight for the old concrete workhorse.
He finally settled into the firmness of the bed with his back soaking in the light from the ongoing television.
My Father took an officer into headlock and planted him lips first into the sidewalk pavement. The struggle endured until eventually leading to the arrest of Father and Brother and a few others. The rest is simply history. Today – twenty odd years later - the Father and Son are both deceased. They’re dead. Never again will my pair of eyes be laid on either of them. I have lost so much in my short life, too much, and all in a complete terrifying-why-God order.[/i]
LOGAN: Your last trip, Bobby Cairo, the last time you’ll take a piss or even do something just as simple as blinking your eyes... is all counting down and ticking away. It’s becoming dimmer even now that I speak. Fading, ending, losing the natural act of breathing, losing it all.
BUT, first, I must go back. I enrolled in WCF during the July of year 2000, just days before my heroic Solid Snake-Link-Mario-God-Like Father died. I sat in my room during smoke breaks for roleplays and played Staind’s “It’s Been Awhile” over and over again all the while vowing to win said weeks match because I was otherwise far too young for widow-Mother to see me smoking. It worked.. I guess. On another note, I’m not even sure that I actually like that song.[/i]
He shot up in bed like someone had stabbed his rear with a red hot steaming iron. The dead eyes were now gleaming with fear and terror and confusion and locked back onto the television. He tried to speak but only strange gibberish flew from his mouth.
What I was trying to prove? No idea. All I know is that for a good amount of time there was not a single person in the roleplaying world more motivated than I – because I had the death of a legend on my side and the needs to meet his approval week in and week out.[/color]
It was much like a coma patient just waking and fearfully wondering where the hell he was and how he got there to begin with. The person on the television, Logan, was… simply… impossible. Why hadn’t he noticed this twist of reality any sooner?
After claiming WCF’s world belt four times in a much felt short six year period – I no longer looked to fallen Father for inspiration. I was becoming my own man and at the same time I honestly didn’t like it. Well, for starters, the love of my life and the love of five years thought it would be a promising and wonderful choice to leave me as dirt and next day-like engulf her vagina over the very best friend that I had grown up with since childhood. And then.. worse comes worser, my Brother gets robbed and shot in the neck which forces him to change his life style to a paraplegic. [/i]
There was no explanation other than the possibility that he might be losing his mind. His trembling hands found his face and he felt it to see if it was real.
It was a strange time, but then.. suddenly.. WCF reopened. I wanted to return as a veteran character being that Logan had already won the belt a zillion times and fingered everyones ass, but, however, given my change of life… I no longer wanted to play the cool guy or the man to overcome all odds. I wanted to be a loser because I was basically a loser in real life. I ate hotdogs all the time and gained like 80 pounds SO Logan gained all the weight also and too became a hotdog addict.[/i]
LOGAN: And I will do.. watcha gotta do.. to get-
He powered off the television via remote, effectively murdering the catchphrase. His brain – or to say if he even had one at this point – felt as though it had disappeared. The room narrowed in and sight became a truck mirror. Everything was closer to him than it seemed. He waved his hand in front of his face, fighting the urge to get sick.
The transition was perfect.[/i]
And yet still and disappointedly without acknowledgment for his dilemma, the unknown source of narration continued.
I didn’t give a fuck about RPing but yet cared enough not to give a fuck to still put a bit of interest into writing ANNNND fat-me and fat-Logan never made sense but I had the best time of my life WCF-wise. Unfortunately however the extra pounds sky rocketed my blood pressure and cholesterol, and as such I had to diet. It certainly took light years longer to lose the weight than it did to gain it of course. I really do miss hotdogs.[/i]
He finally took a moment to breathe and catch his breath. He needed to be calm to think rationally, and after all this had to be just a dream anyway. It couldn’t be real, fantasies and characters of it simply aren’t real. But there was a slight problem to all of this; this was not a dream.
But what’s the point of telling anyone all this? Is it sympathy I seek? No. It’s possibly an explanation or more like a sharing of words or maybe even an origin to the person I am and all that has been endured. I can look into the mirror and say, yes, why me, some unfortunate things have happened so far that usually takes the lifespan of an average full life to witness, but I can also say I am simply lucky to be alive. I do honestly believe that others have had it worse somewhere in the world and what I call tragedy is a bowl of stale cereal to them.[/i]
He mustered up the effort to leap from the mess of blankets and plant his feet into the carpet floor. A bold move. Because he didn’t know whether or not that was indeed a real carpet or even a floor and not quicksand waiting to suck him under. There was no way of really knowing anymore, his sense of reality had become lost. He needed to find it again; he needed proof that he wasn’t crazy or dead or had ever been alive in the first place. He needed SOMETHING to explain his current state of existence, and the continuing narration sure wasn’t providing him that.. no.. it just made everything worse.
But why even share this? I think I’m the guy in the massive crowd jumping up and down and waving his arms and saying, “Hey! Is everyone else’s life like this too?” Again, it isn’t sympathy I’m after – it’s more or less knowledge that I am after – an experiment of sorts. You see, after the death of my second Brother just a few weeks ago I had the craziest urge to start writing again with WCF. Just like all those years ago when I was twelve and wrote one of my first few WCF roleplays on the day of Father’s funeral. What I am saying is – is that WCF is without a doubt an outlet for grief and frustration.
A muffled song produced from inside the nightstand drawer that the clock rested on. Someone was calling him, obviously, and on his own cell phone. For a particular reason or another he knew it was his phone, mostly in part due to the distinct song that was playing which was Metallica “The Struggle Within”. He opened the drawer and grabbed the cell phone.
It’s like my own personal guidance counselor. And it’s always been there during the most tragic events of my life.. always. Thank you, Seth. Writing for it sometimes helps me at least try and make sense of things. But sometimes things just never make sense and I doubt they ever will. I fear that I am lost. Doomed.[/i]
He brought the phone to his ear hoping that an actual live person was on the other line and not just a figment of his imagination, but either way he’d never have a real way of knowing.
JARROD BAKER: Help me…
CELL PHONE: What’s wrong? Are you okay?
JARROD BAKER: I don’t know. Can I ask you something?
CELL PHONE: That’s kind of a reversal of roles, heh, but sure.
JARROD BAKER: Do you know about WCF?
CELL PHONE: …
JARROD BAKER: Do you?
CELL PHONE: … of course.
JARROD BAKER: I seen Logan.. on the television. A real live Logan.
CELL PHONE: …
JARROD BAKER: But that’s impossible right?
CELL PHONE: Uh… if you didn’t have cable I guess it would be.
JARROD BAKER: No! He’s a character I created for WCF!
CELL PHONE: Yeah, people are aware of that.
JARROD BAKER: WCF is not actually real; it’s just an e-wrestling community for Christ sakes.
CELL PHONE: I’m sorry, E… Wrestling?
JARROD BAKER: Yes.. e-wrestling, oh, I guess this is no use. You’re probably not even real. I guess I really have gone insane…
CELL PHONE: That or high.
JARROD BAKER: Ha.. haha.. even my insanity has a sense of humor.
CELL PHONE: You seemed just fine at that silly High School Reunion.
JARROD BAKER: High School Reunion? Oh, right, I guess that explains this name tag on my shirt. Ah, so my insanity is also logical too. Nice.
CELL PHONE: Erm. It’s a small world isn’t it? I bet we would have never thought back in high school that one day we’d eventually wind up working for the same company. It’s pretty strange how things work out isn’t it, Logan.
JARROD BAKER: What’d you call me?
CELL PHONE: Logan, Jarrod, whatever who cares.
JARROD BAKER: My name isn’t Logan…
CELL PHONE: Geez.. sorry. I’m just used to calling you Logan at work all the time so I-
JARROD BAKER: At work?! Who the hell are you?
CELL PHONE: Dude, it’s me, Hank Brown. Are you sure you aren’t high?
JARROD BAKER: But the voice, the narration… my brother just died! THAT’S my life. You’re an interviewer that Seth Lerch created.
CELL PHONE: The man might think he’s God sometimes but he sure didn’t create me. He hired me. And Jay Price died? What?
JARROD BAKER: This doesn’t make any sense. I’m Jarrod Baker, a fuckin’ Pizza Hut delivery driver not a thirty-eight year old wrestler!
CELL PHONE: Uh, right, well.. uh.. call me back when you feel better, man. I hope you can make it for One.
The cell phone on the other end clicked off and just immediately after that he dashed to the closet mirror in sight which happened to be in the bathroom. He noticed small wrapped hand soaps at the sink that reminded him of the ones you’d see in a hotel. That wasn’t as strange as of course looking into the mirror and seeing the identical face of Logan staring back at him or whether.. himself.
I think that writing this is a way of saying goodbye to my Brother.[/i]
He clawed his fingers into his hair, gripping tightly, pulling roots from his skull and crying out in agony as the ‘white’ narration continued inside his mind, gradually ripping him deeper and deeper out of reality. He slumped down into the corner of the bathroom wall, hiding his face into his knees, eyes rolling back, the shock of everything forcing him into a deep sleep of unconsciousness.
It didn’t have to be posted. I could have just kept all of this to myself, but now it’s out there.. forever. It helps, feels better this way. Unless proboards shuts down and decides to take all the boards and posts with it, then this will live on forever.. an immortal goodbye. Goodbye, Buddy…[/i][/blockquote]
And…
Goodnight, Logan.
