Post by Deleted on Oct 2, 2015 0:04:43 GMT -6
Out Through The Backdoor
“You either die a hero…or live long enough to see yourself become a villain.”
-Harvey Dent
-
The light emitted from the streetlights blinded me. Its white glow made me beg for eternal darkness. I would be grateful if the sun never rose, just so long as these street lights went out for a moment – a second, a minute, an hour, a day, a lifetime…an eternity. I had found myself in a place that wasn’t too unfamiliar to me at this stage of my life – no, not the street corner between Punchard Ave and Main Street in New Orleans with half a handle of pineapple Smirnoff clenched between my fist.
Rock bottom.
I had felt around rock bottom for some time, but now, and only now was I sure that I had truly reached it. And even as I sat there, that same tingling feeling I had felt since the first time I had gotten drunk, I knew. Even as I sat there, dreading the eventual cycle of vomiting, being hung over, and chasing that hang over with a sea of cheap liquor, I knew. I knew that this was the lowest I could get, that even if I tried to dig deeper, I wouldn’t be able to. And that’s when I knew that I had to pick myself back up.
Why do we reach rock bottom? So we can dust ourselves off, pick ourselves up and reach new heights. That’s how I made a career in pro wrestling. I would get knocked down, and stand back up every single time. Years ago, I was destroyed by Matt Slater and quit New Edge Wrestling – I would return to become a Trans Atlantic, Xtreme and World champion, defeating the likes of Matthew Carter, Roger Wright, Johnny Stylez and many others in the process.
So yeah, I hit rock bottom. I hit it hard. Hell, I didn’t hit rock bottom, I beat the shit out of it. And I sat there, basking in the street light, back to the lamp, hoping some homeless person didn’t decide to make me into a pincushion, hoping a transsexual like Jenny 3 Dicks didn’t decide she wanted to orally violate me, and hoping that God would allow me to see another day.
All I needed was one more shot – one more shot at redemption.
--
“Hi, my name is Judas. I’ve been sober for eleven months.”
Fuck. Well. I guess we all make mistakes. There comes a point in every man’s life where he must own his actions and bear himself upon a cross for the entire world to see. That’s part of being a man, owning up and repenting for your sins. My self destructive behavior cost me everything: my family, my money and my wrestling career. So it was my time to start turning things around.
The dingy room carried the stench of a stale beer, maybe a couple olives thrown in the mix. I lived right outside Salt Lake City in a town you’d never hear about. I liked it, it was quiet, everyone knew everyone. I felt out of the public eye, and without the pressure put on myself by the public and myself, I had no need to drink. I had no desire to ruin anything else by sipping any of that toxic liquid.
Applauding me, the twelve people in the room all prepared to share their stories. Before each of them got up on stage and told their stories, I could impart some wisdom, share my experiences, lead them out of the darkness by showing them the mistakes I made and hoping they’d never repeat them. I could do something that I had never been able to do in my life – be a role model. I could save –
“Judas! Do you even listen to me when I talk to you? Or is it in through one ear and out the other?”
Honest answer? I just saw a nice pair of tits.
Okay. So I wasn’t in that town in Salt Lake City, not now at least. Sometimes my mind wanders, it wanders to less pressing times, it wanders to happier moments where I lived in obscurity. Many people work their entire lives to get famous, for people to give a damn about them. I’ve been working the past year to get people to forget about me – to no avail. What can I say? I’m one in a friggin’ million.
“I’m sorry, did I give you a speaking role?” Wrong answer. That warranted the dirty glare that I received. Again, one in a friggin’ million.
Salvatore’s Bistro was opened in the 1920’s, originally, it was an Italian pastry shop dedicated to the finer side of Italian cuisine. Of course, times change, and so does the culture. Salvatore D’Angelo croaked, and a new family took over. The De Luca family, headed by patriarch Frank (otherwise known as Shady Frankie), turned this establishment into one of the dingiest and scandalous bars in New Orleans. It was a front for mob work, and looked the part.
The room was clouded with cigar smoke; it was pretty busy for a Friday morning. There were a few pool tables, one playing cards table and at least thirty people seated. The room had an quaint, rosy glow about it, making it rather unsettling, maybe even unfriendly. There was a stage, where a band of filthy looking teenagers were doing their cover of “House of the Rising Sun” (perhaps the worst atrocity committed in this establishment). We sat down, ordered, and were waiting.
Our food hadn’t come yet, and I was hungry.
So, how does a man who has been sober for eleven months, and out of the public eye for even longer, find himself in a place where alcohol pours like a volcano? How does he find himself in a place where the mafia of all entities rules, and where everyone is being watched and under the same thumb? I’ll tell you how: women.
Her name is Maria De Luca. Perhaps the most beautiful woman I have ever set my eyes upon. Okay, maybe not that far – but she was hot, and most importantly, the exact opposite of me – a sweetheart. I had met her at AA around a year ago. She wasn’t there for drinking; she was there out of the kindness of her heart to sponsor others like me. And by the grace of God, she asked if I needed a sponsor, and I said yes.
Months later, I made love to her for the first time. We had gotten very close – she knew about my insecurities, my weaknesses, my strengths. She saw something in me that nobody else could see – my heart. And for that, I love her. That’s why I went all the way out to New Orleans, I wanted to meet her father – the famed Don De Luca. He was the patriarch of his ‘family’ and I wanted to ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage.
It was a kind way of saying: “I’m fucking your daughter and want to take her off the market.”
“So, are we going to talk about your match with Bobby Backdoor?” Even when she was annoyed with my shenanigans, she was adorable. Her nose wrinkled as I absent mindedly started playing with my watch, pretending to make time go faster than it was by moving the hands forward. Looking up, I pressed my lips together before asking a question. “How about a riddle?”
Sighing, Maria knew that there was only one correct answer to this question, there was only one end result: she was going to have to endure whatever riddle or joke I was about to rattle off – and boy was this one a goody. “What’s white, overrated and red all over?” I waited a moment for finesse, but then blurted out the answer anyways, because I simply couldn’t contain myself. ”Bobby Backdoor when I beat his bitch ass to a pulp.”
Crickets.
I guess you could say that this wasn’t the first time I’ve burned Bobby Backdoor. Quite literally in fact. Last Ignite, he interrupted my interview, annoying me so much that I bummed him with a cigarette. But truth be told, I’ve never beaten Backdoor. When I was younger, Backdoor defeated me at Justice, humiliating me. It’s not a loss I’ve forgotten. I learned from it, and got better.
Bobby Backdoor is many things – a Justin Bieber fan, a man who masturbates to the band Journey, the owner of the failed Phoenix Wrestling Elite and a former New Edge World Champion. One thing Bobby is not, however, is a slouch in the ring. He brings a style of wrestling that is very aggressive, much like the type of person that he is. And like him, I can turn that aggression to my advantage.
There’s an old Judo saying told by the Japanese: “When he pushes, you pull, when he pulls, you push.” Sometimes, you have to go with the flow. Sometimes, going in the same direction as your opponent will bring them to where you want to go, not their intended destination. Wrestling, much like life is all about momentum, and Bobby Backdoor is moving at an accelerated pace in one direction – a trait I fully intend to exploit.
“I don’t know why you want to meet my father, he’s really nothing special. He’s-“ Maria opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. I was surprised; she’s normally…um…very vocal. And that’s when I felt all the eyes in the room shift towards the door. Flanked by two men who were at least six foot five, the man with an unmistakable aura entered the room: Don De Luca. He was known as one of the most hard-line mob bosses left, he ruled his territories with an iron fist. If you were fucking around or screwed up, he’d know, and you’d suffer. He was around six two himself, an intimidating figure covered head to toe in an Italian suit. He was a lot younger than I imagined, and a bit chubbier – I didn’t know that could fit so much shit into one person. Both myself and Maria stood up, she hugged her father and I extended my hand. He ignored me. Off to a good start, I’d say.
“Maria, my dear, it’s been too long! Your mother has been waiting to talk to you! She’s in the car, you should go see her now; myself and Mr. Dathyn have some business matters to discuss.” Maria didn’t get a single word out before she was ushered to the car by one of the gentlemen who was formerly flanking Mr. De Luca. He motioned for me to sit down, and when someone of his authority asks you to sit, you sit.
“I know why you’re here. You love her, don’t you? You want to marry her.” Well, I guess that made my life easier. Before I could answer, a waiter (the same bastard who didn’t get me my food) brought the Don a bottle of wine and one cannoli. Let me repeat that: one, singular cannoli. “So, is that why you contacted me?” Contact was a very loose term for what I did. At first, I asked around for where I could find this guy; asked the wrong person, who coincidentally was one of his men, and got into a little bit of what I’d like to call ‘a situation.’ After the altercation (leaving that man knocked almost unconscious), I took the Don’s employee’s phone and programmed the number into mine before contacting him.
“How did you know?”
“A father knows these things. But what I don’t know, is if you’re worthy to marry my sweet Maria.” Censoring every sarcastic comment that I wanted to say, I nodded slowly, acknowledging this man’s ‘struggle.’ He began toying with the cannoli, clearly sensing my hunger, and began pouring two glasses of wine. “How would you plan to gauge my worth?” A valid question, I suppose. I was simply making conversation at this point.
“Well, word on the street is that you’re a crafty son of a bitch. Word on the street is that you are pretty good at getting things done, no?”
“I wouldn’t say good. I’d say the best.”
“Good then. I want you to earn my daughter’s hand in marriage, do me a couple favors, and we’ll talk about it. Hell, I’ll throw you the wedding myself.” A free wedding? I could get behind that quicker than I could get behind this guy’s daughter. The problem though, is that when I get asked to do people favors, it typically is shady and doesn’t quite pan out for me. I assume the mob would be more or less the same sort of deal. I slowly began to nod my head, knowing that I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. “Alright then, a toast – to family.” He slowly inched the wine over to me and raised his glass.
Well shit…that’s eleven months down the drain.
“You either die a hero…or live long enough to see yourself become a villain.”
-Harvey Dent
-
The light emitted from the streetlights blinded me. Its white glow made me beg for eternal darkness. I would be grateful if the sun never rose, just so long as these street lights went out for a moment – a second, a minute, an hour, a day, a lifetime…an eternity. I had found myself in a place that wasn’t too unfamiliar to me at this stage of my life – no, not the street corner between Punchard Ave and Main Street in New Orleans with half a handle of pineapple Smirnoff clenched between my fist.
Rock bottom.
I had felt around rock bottom for some time, but now, and only now was I sure that I had truly reached it. And even as I sat there, that same tingling feeling I had felt since the first time I had gotten drunk, I knew. Even as I sat there, dreading the eventual cycle of vomiting, being hung over, and chasing that hang over with a sea of cheap liquor, I knew. I knew that this was the lowest I could get, that even if I tried to dig deeper, I wouldn’t be able to. And that’s when I knew that I had to pick myself back up.
Why do we reach rock bottom? So we can dust ourselves off, pick ourselves up and reach new heights. That’s how I made a career in pro wrestling. I would get knocked down, and stand back up every single time. Years ago, I was destroyed by Matt Slater and quit New Edge Wrestling – I would return to become a Trans Atlantic, Xtreme and World champion, defeating the likes of Matthew Carter, Roger Wright, Johnny Stylez and many others in the process.
So yeah, I hit rock bottom. I hit it hard. Hell, I didn’t hit rock bottom, I beat the shit out of it. And I sat there, basking in the street light, back to the lamp, hoping some homeless person didn’t decide to make me into a pincushion, hoping a transsexual like Jenny 3 Dicks didn’t decide she wanted to orally violate me, and hoping that God would allow me to see another day.
All I needed was one more shot – one more shot at redemption.
--
“Hi, my name is Judas. I’ve been sober for eleven months.”
Fuck. Well. I guess we all make mistakes. There comes a point in every man’s life where he must own his actions and bear himself upon a cross for the entire world to see. That’s part of being a man, owning up and repenting for your sins. My self destructive behavior cost me everything: my family, my money and my wrestling career. So it was my time to start turning things around.
The dingy room carried the stench of a stale beer, maybe a couple olives thrown in the mix. I lived right outside Salt Lake City in a town you’d never hear about. I liked it, it was quiet, everyone knew everyone. I felt out of the public eye, and without the pressure put on myself by the public and myself, I had no need to drink. I had no desire to ruin anything else by sipping any of that toxic liquid.
Applauding me, the twelve people in the room all prepared to share their stories. Before each of them got up on stage and told their stories, I could impart some wisdom, share my experiences, lead them out of the darkness by showing them the mistakes I made and hoping they’d never repeat them. I could do something that I had never been able to do in my life – be a role model. I could save –
“Judas! Do you even listen to me when I talk to you? Or is it in through one ear and out the other?”
Honest answer? I just saw a nice pair of tits.
Okay. So I wasn’t in that town in Salt Lake City, not now at least. Sometimes my mind wanders, it wanders to less pressing times, it wanders to happier moments where I lived in obscurity. Many people work their entire lives to get famous, for people to give a damn about them. I’ve been working the past year to get people to forget about me – to no avail. What can I say? I’m one in a friggin’ million.
“I’m sorry, did I give you a speaking role?” Wrong answer. That warranted the dirty glare that I received. Again, one in a friggin’ million.
Salvatore’s Bistro was opened in the 1920’s, originally, it was an Italian pastry shop dedicated to the finer side of Italian cuisine. Of course, times change, and so does the culture. Salvatore D’Angelo croaked, and a new family took over. The De Luca family, headed by patriarch Frank (otherwise known as Shady Frankie), turned this establishment into one of the dingiest and scandalous bars in New Orleans. It was a front for mob work, and looked the part.
The room was clouded with cigar smoke; it was pretty busy for a Friday morning. There were a few pool tables, one playing cards table and at least thirty people seated. The room had an quaint, rosy glow about it, making it rather unsettling, maybe even unfriendly. There was a stage, where a band of filthy looking teenagers were doing their cover of “House of the Rising Sun” (perhaps the worst atrocity committed in this establishment). We sat down, ordered, and were waiting.
Our food hadn’t come yet, and I was hungry.
So, how does a man who has been sober for eleven months, and out of the public eye for even longer, find himself in a place where alcohol pours like a volcano? How does he find himself in a place where the mafia of all entities rules, and where everyone is being watched and under the same thumb? I’ll tell you how: women.
Her name is Maria De Luca. Perhaps the most beautiful woman I have ever set my eyes upon. Okay, maybe not that far – but she was hot, and most importantly, the exact opposite of me – a sweetheart. I had met her at AA around a year ago. She wasn’t there for drinking; she was there out of the kindness of her heart to sponsor others like me. And by the grace of God, she asked if I needed a sponsor, and I said yes.
Months later, I made love to her for the first time. We had gotten very close – she knew about my insecurities, my weaknesses, my strengths. She saw something in me that nobody else could see – my heart. And for that, I love her. That’s why I went all the way out to New Orleans, I wanted to meet her father – the famed Don De Luca. He was the patriarch of his ‘family’ and I wanted to ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage.
It was a kind way of saying: “I’m fucking your daughter and want to take her off the market.”
“So, are we going to talk about your match with Bobby Backdoor?” Even when she was annoyed with my shenanigans, she was adorable. Her nose wrinkled as I absent mindedly started playing with my watch, pretending to make time go faster than it was by moving the hands forward. Looking up, I pressed my lips together before asking a question. “How about a riddle?”
Sighing, Maria knew that there was only one correct answer to this question, there was only one end result: she was going to have to endure whatever riddle or joke I was about to rattle off – and boy was this one a goody. “What’s white, overrated and red all over?” I waited a moment for finesse, but then blurted out the answer anyways, because I simply couldn’t contain myself. ”Bobby Backdoor when I beat his bitch ass to a pulp.”
Crickets.
I guess you could say that this wasn’t the first time I’ve burned Bobby Backdoor. Quite literally in fact. Last Ignite, he interrupted my interview, annoying me so much that I bummed him with a cigarette. But truth be told, I’ve never beaten Backdoor. When I was younger, Backdoor defeated me at Justice, humiliating me. It’s not a loss I’ve forgotten. I learned from it, and got better.
Bobby Backdoor is many things – a Justin Bieber fan, a man who masturbates to the band Journey, the owner of the failed Phoenix Wrestling Elite and a former New Edge World Champion. One thing Bobby is not, however, is a slouch in the ring. He brings a style of wrestling that is very aggressive, much like the type of person that he is. And like him, I can turn that aggression to my advantage.
There’s an old Judo saying told by the Japanese: “When he pushes, you pull, when he pulls, you push.” Sometimes, you have to go with the flow. Sometimes, going in the same direction as your opponent will bring them to where you want to go, not their intended destination. Wrestling, much like life is all about momentum, and Bobby Backdoor is moving at an accelerated pace in one direction – a trait I fully intend to exploit.
“I don’t know why you want to meet my father, he’s really nothing special. He’s-“ Maria opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. I was surprised; she’s normally…um…very vocal. And that’s when I felt all the eyes in the room shift towards the door. Flanked by two men who were at least six foot five, the man with an unmistakable aura entered the room: Don De Luca. He was known as one of the most hard-line mob bosses left, he ruled his territories with an iron fist. If you were fucking around or screwed up, he’d know, and you’d suffer. He was around six two himself, an intimidating figure covered head to toe in an Italian suit. He was a lot younger than I imagined, and a bit chubbier – I didn’t know that could fit so much shit into one person. Both myself and Maria stood up, she hugged her father and I extended my hand. He ignored me. Off to a good start, I’d say.
“Maria, my dear, it’s been too long! Your mother has been waiting to talk to you! She’s in the car, you should go see her now; myself and Mr. Dathyn have some business matters to discuss.” Maria didn’t get a single word out before she was ushered to the car by one of the gentlemen who was formerly flanking Mr. De Luca. He motioned for me to sit down, and when someone of his authority asks you to sit, you sit.
“I know why you’re here. You love her, don’t you? You want to marry her.” Well, I guess that made my life easier. Before I could answer, a waiter (the same bastard who didn’t get me my food) brought the Don a bottle of wine and one cannoli. Let me repeat that: one, singular cannoli. “So, is that why you contacted me?” Contact was a very loose term for what I did. At first, I asked around for where I could find this guy; asked the wrong person, who coincidentally was one of his men, and got into a little bit of what I’d like to call ‘a situation.’ After the altercation (leaving that man knocked almost unconscious), I took the Don’s employee’s phone and programmed the number into mine before contacting him.
“How did you know?”
“A father knows these things. But what I don’t know, is if you’re worthy to marry my sweet Maria.” Censoring every sarcastic comment that I wanted to say, I nodded slowly, acknowledging this man’s ‘struggle.’ He began toying with the cannoli, clearly sensing my hunger, and began pouring two glasses of wine. “How would you plan to gauge my worth?” A valid question, I suppose. I was simply making conversation at this point.
“Well, word on the street is that you’re a crafty son of a bitch. Word on the street is that you are pretty good at getting things done, no?”
“I wouldn’t say good. I’d say the best.”
“Good then. I want you to earn my daughter’s hand in marriage, do me a couple favors, and we’ll talk about it. Hell, I’ll throw you the wedding myself.” A free wedding? I could get behind that quicker than I could get behind this guy’s daughter. The problem though, is that when I get asked to do people favors, it typically is shady and doesn’t quite pan out for me. I assume the mob would be more or less the same sort of deal. I slowly began to nod my head, knowing that I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. “Alright then, a toast – to family.” He slowly inched the wine over to me and raised his glass.
Well shit…that’s eleven months down the drain.