Post by John Anthony on Jun 16, 2007 20:34:28 GMT -6
Developmental Role Play
/--- Pity Trips are for Emo Kids ---\
It was a recurring nightmare. Sleep was scarce when your nights were spent remembering an incident that nearly ended a career. The feelings of pain, agony, humiliation… words could hardly describe a situation in which you became paralyzed on the ground unable to act upon your gut instincts, your basic human nature. Lying on the mat of a squared circle, blood and tears pouring past your lips onto the surface below you, the man who put you there standing above. John could remember. Hell, he wished he could forget. Looking into the crowd to see nothing but a mixed cascade of colors blurred by the arena lights. Red splotches where blood had run into his eyes. Spinning visuals and hallucinations where his brain had begun to swell against his skull. But one vision remained clear, crystal clear. Macros, standing above the ruined, battered John Anthony after applying a Legion Driver that crushed more than his body. Laying there, eyes wide open but unable to see, mouth cracked but unable to taste, ears ringing but unable to hear. All he could do was feel, and that was a sensation of torture.
John sat at the foot of his beg and stared at the two pills in his right hand. He squinted and rubbed his left temple before ingesting the pills. The morning sun glistened through the white shades of his hotel room. The televisions were turned off, his computers were shut down, and his cellphone was silenced. An unusual environment for the man from Beverly Hills. Calvin Ayre had given John a deserved vacation from his duties at Bodog until he felt able to return. The doctors had suggested he take a month at the bare minimum to recuperate. A beating like the one John suffered at the Road to Over in Dover was enough to put a man in jail for at least ten years if it happened on the streets. Part of the business.
Reaching over and grabbing the remote, John clicked on the flat screen TV in the corner. The morning edition of Sportscenter reported the current NBA Finals situation between the Cavaliers and the Spurs.
“A 4-0 sweep.” John nodded his head.
“I bet that’s got Calvin in quite a bad mood.”
Flipping through the channels John eventually grew bored and switched the set off. To be honest, this routine was getting old. Day after day he would dream his nightmares, awaken to an empty room, and spend the day “recovering.” Two more weeks of this? John couldn’t bare the idea. He jumped to his feet only to have the room begin spinning violently as he collapsed back onto the bed. His head throbbed and his ankle cried out in agony. Ok, maybe he was getting ahead of himself.
He raised himself slowly this time and successfully made it to his feet. Trying to avoid limping, John hobbled towards his office. Still wearing a pair of sweatpants and wife beater, John stood in front of his office window. John crossed his arms and looked over the city. His eyes fell upon the Sovereign Bank Arena, New Jersey’s finest locale for a multitude of events. POW: New England had never ventured to the venue, but just the sight of an arena sparked emotions in John. An unrest to return to the ring, to get back to where he was. A week before a chance at glory! A week before his chance to face off with that underhanded… John let out a sigh. Insults and rage weren’t going to help him.
It was time for John Anthony to stand before the multitude again. To hear the voices of the fans cheering him on. To experience that moment of bliss when the referee held your hand high as you were announced winner of the match. John didn’t want revenge. Not on Macros, not on JR Zevon for his supposed paying off of Riley, not on Randall Lovejoy for booking the match. No, John just wanted another chance. Another opportunity to bring everything he had to the table and put on the greatest show in sports entertainment today.
Sitting down at his desk, John reached for his cellphone. Flipping it open, he paused before holding down the number “4” key. He glanced down at his ankle as the pain still lingered. His hand returned to his temple as he tried to sooth the burdening pressure in his head. Determined, he pressed in the key on the cellphone. Speed dial for one Randall Lovejoy. He heard ringing and cringed. The sound of a phone calling out for an answer brought back the high pitch frequencies his brain was torn apart by the night he lay on the mat beneath Macros. Finally, an answer.
“Hello, Mr. Lovejoy? It’s John Anthony… yes… yes thank you. I wanted to say… I’m ready. No, I know… believe me I’m more than aware. With all due respect sir, I’ve had more than enough time to consider the risk and reward factor and, in my opinion, the rewards outweigh the risks. I want back in the ring. Yes… yes I can, and thank you. You have a good day too.”
He clasped the phone shut. A burden felt lifted and John breathed in a deep gasp of air before exhaling. A smile emerged on his face, but quickly subsided. He opened the phone again and held down the number “3”. There was one person John knew wouldn’t be too happy about his impulse decision.
“Good morning Julia. I uh… well… wanted to let you know that I’m returning to the ring next week. I called Mr. Lovejoy and I’m getting back out there.”
For the next few moments, John wished his ears would momentarily quit working. It’d have saved him a LOT of pain.
/--- Pity Trips are for Emo Kids ---\
It was a recurring nightmare. Sleep was scarce when your nights were spent remembering an incident that nearly ended a career. The feelings of pain, agony, humiliation… words could hardly describe a situation in which you became paralyzed on the ground unable to act upon your gut instincts, your basic human nature. Lying on the mat of a squared circle, blood and tears pouring past your lips onto the surface below you, the man who put you there standing above. John could remember. Hell, he wished he could forget. Looking into the crowd to see nothing but a mixed cascade of colors blurred by the arena lights. Red splotches where blood had run into his eyes. Spinning visuals and hallucinations where his brain had begun to swell against his skull. But one vision remained clear, crystal clear. Macros, standing above the ruined, battered John Anthony after applying a Legion Driver that crushed more than his body. Laying there, eyes wide open but unable to see, mouth cracked but unable to taste, ears ringing but unable to hear. All he could do was feel, and that was a sensation of torture.
John sat at the foot of his beg and stared at the two pills in his right hand. He squinted and rubbed his left temple before ingesting the pills. The morning sun glistened through the white shades of his hotel room. The televisions were turned off, his computers were shut down, and his cellphone was silenced. An unusual environment for the man from Beverly Hills. Calvin Ayre had given John a deserved vacation from his duties at Bodog until he felt able to return. The doctors had suggested he take a month at the bare minimum to recuperate. A beating like the one John suffered at the Road to Over in Dover was enough to put a man in jail for at least ten years if it happened on the streets. Part of the business.
Reaching over and grabbing the remote, John clicked on the flat screen TV in the corner. The morning edition of Sportscenter reported the current NBA Finals situation between the Cavaliers and the Spurs.
“A 4-0 sweep.” John nodded his head.
“I bet that’s got Calvin in quite a bad mood.”
Flipping through the channels John eventually grew bored and switched the set off. To be honest, this routine was getting old. Day after day he would dream his nightmares, awaken to an empty room, and spend the day “recovering.” Two more weeks of this? John couldn’t bare the idea. He jumped to his feet only to have the room begin spinning violently as he collapsed back onto the bed. His head throbbed and his ankle cried out in agony. Ok, maybe he was getting ahead of himself.
He raised himself slowly this time and successfully made it to his feet. Trying to avoid limping, John hobbled towards his office. Still wearing a pair of sweatpants and wife beater, John stood in front of his office window. John crossed his arms and looked over the city. His eyes fell upon the Sovereign Bank Arena, New Jersey’s finest locale for a multitude of events. POW: New England had never ventured to the venue, but just the sight of an arena sparked emotions in John. An unrest to return to the ring, to get back to where he was. A week before a chance at glory! A week before his chance to face off with that underhanded… John let out a sigh. Insults and rage weren’t going to help him.
It was time for John Anthony to stand before the multitude again. To hear the voices of the fans cheering him on. To experience that moment of bliss when the referee held your hand high as you were announced winner of the match. John didn’t want revenge. Not on Macros, not on JR Zevon for his supposed paying off of Riley, not on Randall Lovejoy for booking the match. No, John just wanted another chance. Another opportunity to bring everything he had to the table and put on the greatest show in sports entertainment today.
Sitting down at his desk, John reached for his cellphone. Flipping it open, he paused before holding down the number “4” key. He glanced down at his ankle as the pain still lingered. His hand returned to his temple as he tried to sooth the burdening pressure in his head. Determined, he pressed in the key on the cellphone. Speed dial for one Randall Lovejoy. He heard ringing and cringed. The sound of a phone calling out for an answer brought back the high pitch frequencies his brain was torn apart by the night he lay on the mat beneath Macros. Finally, an answer.
“Hello, Mr. Lovejoy? It’s John Anthony… yes… yes thank you. I wanted to say… I’m ready. No, I know… believe me I’m more than aware. With all due respect sir, I’ve had more than enough time to consider the risk and reward factor and, in my opinion, the rewards outweigh the risks. I want back in the ring. Yes… yes I can, and thank you. You have a good day too.”
He clasped the phone shut. A burden felt lifted and John breathed in a deep gasp of air before exhaling. A smile emerged on his face, but quickly subsided. He opened the phone again and held down the number “3”. There was one person John knew wouldn’t be too happy about his impulse decision.
“Good morning Julia. I uh… well… wanted to let you know that I’m returning to the ring next week. I called Mr. Lovejoy and I’m getting back out there.”
For the next few moments, John wished his ears would momentarily quit working. It’d have saved him a LOT of pain.
