Post by "Superstar" Deathrow on Mar 3, 2007 9:46:55 GMT -5
(Nighttime. The frosted glass making up the windows of a bar make imperfect rectangles of light appear on the otherwise black sidewalk. In the street, we can see a parked blue Volvo S80. When the door opens to let a man walk out, not dangerously unsteady on his feet, we sneak in.
Inside the bar, we see groups of people socializing. Some are loud and most likely arguing, while others a re hunching over their tables almost as if plotting some great conspiracy. What unifies them all is that they have drinks of one kind or the other in their hands.
Sitting by the counter – well, maybe sitting is giving the man undeserved credit since his posture suggests a substantial amount of alcohol finding its way through his veins, a fact accentuated by the barely half-empty Absolut Pepper bottle in front of him – is our hero, Tommy D. He stares blindly in front of him, or maybe he is trying to catch his own face in the mirror covering the wall opposite of him. A mirror that is in large part hidden behind the numerous bottles sitting on their glass shelves.
Deathrow mumbles something that is impossible to make anything out of. Maybe it isn’t even English? Possibly SuperStar talk? Nahhh probably just overly slured)
Bartender, tall but skinny guy with a red/white striped shirt, black trousers and a face oddly reminding us of the immortal TV character Spock only with a more open and friendly expression: “What did you say, friend?”
(Deathrow slowly turns his head to look at the person who so rudely intruded into the sexy mans private universe. A universe with two inhabitants – one Thomas Deathrow and one Mr Pepper, first name Absolut. Upon entering this universe, Deathrow amazingly discovered that life is a struggle, a struggle he needed to win. His whole existence is depending on it. And now a third being has materialized in this world turning it upside down. Just as he had figured out a way to win the fight – a way to get a higher percentage of alcohol in his system than that grinning bastard Pepper over there. And now it’s gone all because of that strange, blurry figure out there.)
Bartender: “Hey, are you feeling okay?”
(Those noises. They seem to be coming from that red and white blur. Tommy knows somewhere deep down in his brain that he should be able to understand them. To decipher the sounds and get them to mean something. But he can’t. The fluffy clouds in his mind prevent him to. So he opens his mouth and drools instead.)
Bartender: “HEY --- ARE – YOU --- FEELING --- OKAY!?”
(In the world perceived as reality by the majority of guests, the bartender draws huge attention. In Deathrow’s world, a bolt of lightning strikes through the clouds. Is that thin and blurry cloud – pink, is it? – asking if he’s okay? How could he possibly be okay? Someone has betrayed him. Someone he regarded as a friend. It could be Mr Pepper, but he doesn’t think so. It’s probably not that pink cloud either – after all, he has never seen that one before, has he? But then there must be even more to the universe than them. His head hurts.)
Deathrow, shaking his head slowly but with great intensity: “hhhh – kay?”
Bartender: “Look friend, I think you’ve had enough. I will take care of your bottle, ok?”
(Tommy is wondering why he is unable to understand the meaning of these sounds when the ones he heard earlier were so clear. But hey! What’s happening to Mr Pepper!? He is being abducted by that strange cloud!)
Deathrow: “NOOOOOO!”
(The bar goes silent, and the attention of the ones who weren’t already looking at the well-dressed drunk on the barstool is immediately caught.
The bartender ignores the cry he has heard too many times before. He puts the bottle away behind the counter.)
Bartender: “There. Now we’ll have to get you home, friend.”
(The world has ceased to exist. Nothing makes any sense anymore. How is he supposed to win the struggle, fulfill his destiny, when the one mean he had to do so is gone? Chaos reigns. Anarchy is upon him. Suddenly an avalanche of thunderbolts hits his mind, making everything white and then a sickening shade of purple.)
Bartender: “No! Not on the counter!”
Bar guests: “EWWW!”
(It is strange how clear and in focus everything seems. The Spock look-alike in his striped shirt, the booze on the wall. The vomit covering his lap, the stool next to him, his shoes, a portion of the carpet at his feet and swimming around in a pool on the counter. And it smells terrible too.)
Deathrow: “S.. Sorry. I – I am so.. sorry.”
Bartender: “You had me worried for a while there, pal. But now please get up and leave.”
(Deathrow gets to his feet, which feel more like two bowling balls than parts of flesh and bone controllable through a number of muscles and joints. He almost falls to the floor, but stabilizes himself by grabbing the counter. Phew! Close one! He reaches into his pocket.)
Deathrow: “I want to p..pay for this mess. Give me a ca… (gulp) call.”
(The bartender accepts the card and the car keys Deathrow held in his hand. Deathrow gives him a weak smile.)
Deathrow: “I don’t think I shhh.. should be driving…”
(Deathrow walks out the door, giving the interested crowd a display of how to walk slower and less steady than anyone would have thought possible. After he has left, a woman who, if we were to be led by our prejudice on how persons of certain trades look a certain way, could easily be an accountant walks up to the bartender.)
Woman: “Who was that bum?”
Bartender, looking at card: “Thomas Deathrow, professional wrestler”
Woman: “I know him, in the New Alberta Pro he is called Superstar. He an his parter his long-time friend and tag team partner won the belts on Tuesday. I can’t blame him for getting wasted. He‘s probably just still celebreating”
(The lady’s male friend, who could be an accountant too, joins them.)
Man: “Isn’t he supposed to fight Casino. In a match that he invented the Superstar Rules match?”
Woman: “He is, and I’m sure he’ll do good. But it seems like his thoughts are elsewhere right now.”
*Fade out*
Inside the bar, we see groups of people socializing. Some are loud and most likely arguing, while others a re hunching over their tables almost as if plotting some great conspiracy. What unifies them all is that they have drinks of one kind or the other in their hands.
Sitting by the counter – well, maybe sitting is giving the man undeserved credit since his posture suggests a substantial amount of alcohol finding its way through his veins, a fact accentuated by the barely half-empty Absolut Pepper bottle in front of him – is our hero, Tommy D. He stares blindly in front of him, or maybe he is trying to catch his own face in the mirror covering the wall opposite of him. A mirror that is in large part hidden behind the numerous bottles sitting on their glass shelves.
Deathrow mumbles something that is impossible to make anything out of. Maybe it isn’t even English? Possibly SuperStar talk? Nahhh probably just overly slured)
Bartender, tall but skinny guy with a red/white striped shirt, black trousers and a face oddly reminding us of the immortal TV character Spock only with a more open and friendly expression: “What did you say, friend?”
(Deathrow slowly turns his head to look at the person who so rudely intruded into the sexy mans private universe. A universe with two inhabitants – one Thomas Deathrow and one Mr Pepper, first name Absolut. Upon entering this universe, Deathrow amazingly discovered that life is a struggle, a struggle he needed to win. His whole existence is depending on it. And now a third being has materialized in this world turning it upside down. Just as he had figured out a way to win the fight – a way to get a higher percentage of alcohol in his system than that grinning bastard Pepper over there. And now it’s gone all because of that strange, blurry figure out there.)
Bartender: “Hey, are you feeling okay?”
(Those noises. They seem to be coming from that red and white blur. Tommy knows somewhere deep down in his brain that he should be able to understand them. To decipher the sounds and get them to mean something. But he can’t. The fluffy clouds in his mind prevent him to. So he opens his mouth and drools instead.)
Bartender: “HEY --- ARE – YOU --- FEELING --- OKAY!?”
(In the world perceived as reality by the majority of guests, the bartender draws huge attention. In Deathrow’s world, a bolt of lightning strikes through the clouds. Is that thin and blurry cloud – pink, is it? – asking if he’s okay? How could he possibly be okay? Someone has betrayed him. Someone he regarded as a friend. It could be Mr Pepper, but he doesn’t think so. It’s probably not that pink cloud either – after all, he has never seen that one before, has he? But then there must be even more to the universe than them. His head hurts.)
Deathrow, shaking his head slowly but with great intensity: “hhhh – kay?”
Bartender: “Look friend, I think you’ve had enough. I will take care of your bottle, ok?”
(Tommy is wondering why he is unable to understand the meaning of these sounds when the ones he heard earlier were so clear. But hey! What’s happening to Mr Pepper!? He is being abducted by that strange cloud!)
Deathrow: “NOOOOOO!”
(The bar goes silent, and the attention of the ones who weren’t already looking at the well-dressed drunk on the barstool is immediately caught.
The bartender ignores the cry he has heard too many times before. He puts the bottle away behind the counter.)
Bartender: “There. Now we’ll have to get you home, friend.”
(The world has ceased to exist. Nothing makes any sense anymore. How is he supposed to win the struggle, fulfill his destiny, when the one mean he had to do so is gone? Chaos reigns. Anarchy is upon him. Suddenly an avalanche of thunderbolts hits his mind, making everything white and then a sickening shade of purple.)
Bartender: “No! Not on the counter!”
Bar guests: “EWWW!”
(It is strange how clear and in focus everything seems. The Spock look-alike in his striped shirt, the booze on the wall. The vomit covering his lap, the stool next to him, his shoes, a portion of the carpet at his feet and swimming around in a pool on the counter. And it smells terrible too.)
Deathrow: “S.. Sorry. I – I am so.. sorry.”
Bartender: “You had me worried for a while there, pal. But now please get up and leave.”
(Deathrow gets to his feet, which feel more like two bowling balls than parts of flesh and bone controllable through a number of muscles and joints. He almost falls to the floor, but stabilizes himself by grabbing the counter. Phew! Close one! He reaches into his pocket.)
Deathrow: “I want to p..pay for this mess. Give me a ca… (gulp) call.”
(The bartender accepts the card and the car keys Deathrow held in his hand. Deathrow gives him a weak smile.)
Deathrow: “I don’t think I shhh.. should be driving…”
(Deathrow walks out the door, giving the interested crowd a display of how to walk slower and less steady than anyone would have thought possible. After he has left, a woman who, if we were to be led by our prejudice on how persons of certain trades look a certain way, could easily be an accountant walks up to the bartender.)
Woman: “Who was that bum?”
Bartender, looking at card: “Thomas Deathrow, professional wrestler”
Woman: “I know him, in the New Alberta Pro he is called Superstar. He an his parter his long-time friend and tag team partner won the belts on Tuesday. I can’t blame him for getting wasted. He‘s probably just still celebreating”
(The lady’s male friend, who could be an accountant too, joins them.)
Man: “Isn’t he supposed to fight Casino. In a match that he invented the Superstar Rules match?”
Woman: “He is, and I’m sure he’ll do good. But it seems like his thoughts are elsewhere right now.”
*Fade out*