Post by joeycrash on Oct 11, 2022 19:05:28 GMT -5
The morning rays beamed across the bed room relentlessly, not caring for the crooked blinds that had not been able to secure the darkness for years. Joey lay across the bed diagonally as if he’d been thrown there like a ragdoll with one leg hanging carelessly off the side. The sun hadn’t woke him - he’d been awake for what felt like hours. The warm light was simply the latest tip on the scales telling him that it was time to move.
After checking out of the motel he left with his bag in tow. He gave the straps a good tug - another reminder there was no gold to weigh him down. He knew what he was going to feel before he jerked the bag up towards him but it’d become a habit recently to remind himself that he always had something to work towards. He was empty.
The diner across the road was busy, he figured the motel and this cheap watering hole probably kept each other in business. The waitress soon found him at a corner booth he’d stolen to himself to serve a patronising smile and a menu. She was pale with blonde dyed hair that had an inch of brown at the roots. She poured a mug of coffee and turned away. Joey checked the time on his phone, and the time in London. It was almost the evening back there, so he asked for a whisky. She smiled, judging him all the while and said, “Sure thing, honey.”
He didn’t finish his food, it was nothing to write home about. His whisky went down with a bite but smoothly - as did his second. He conceded that no amount of whisky or idle chit chat with a woman on the clock could resolve his concerns. Sophie, the daughter of his late manager had been on his mind the entire past two days. She’d not returned any calls or DM’s. Nor had she decided to go and find him like she usually did. He’d posted his location online publicly, as if she’d needed him to do that to find her. In the end he was alone. Nobody went to look for him. Sophie was probably lying in the arms of his tenant, Scott. If it was even the same Sophie. Sophie Smyth is as common and fake sounding of a name as they come. Whose to say they’re the same person? Whose to say that the daughter of his late manager isn’t the same person who went to school with the guy who lives in his flat? Whose to say that the person who slept with him and left, never to be seen or heard from ever again, has just had sex in Joey’s bed with another man?
That last thought sent a wave of anxiety through him. The waitress came by with a check and he asked for a third whisky to finish. She obliged and scurried away with all the enthusiasm of someone whose not paid enough to wait tables or tipped enough to give a shit. He felt that. When she returned with the shot he backed it in one and left a fifty.
He jumped in the back of a cab and allowed himself to doze off. The last minute travel to the show from Toronto, the drinking and everything else on his mind was enough. He dozed off and couldn’t help but think about how he’d met Scott in the first place. He’d decided not to live in the brand new apartment in Grand Rapids he’d bought after becoming Final Boss Champion. There was no soul. No real sense of belonging. But the fucking paperwork meant he was signed in for the long haul. So he’d decided to put an ad in the paper and online and see what fish bit. As it turned out, when you offer cheap rent you get a big turnout. He deliberately rearranged countless interviews and phone calls, and eventually all but two people gave up. One of the remaining enquirers was Scott, who seemed so chill about the whole thing that he wouldn’t have given a fuck if he was rejected. Of course, Joey knew this was the right guy for the job.
“So you’re happy?” Joey said, eyeing Scott carefully to make sure he understood what he was agreeing to. He’d looked like he’d probably been sussed out by police a few times - most likely because this dude looked like he was perma high.
“Yeah, it’s chill. The place is nice and I need a place to sleep, man.” Scott kept his hands half clasped together on his lap as if they were too heavy to go anywhere else.
“So just to reiterate so there’s no confusion,” Crash insisted on continuing, “You agree to sublet the place from me and you have access to all the amenities of the building. Gym, pool, laundry, whatever. You’ll get it at the discounted rate agreed on the contract subject to the following conditions… You still following?”
“... Chyah.”
“Right. So… Whenever I’m in town, I’m going to need favours. You’re mostly going to be driving me around wherever I need to go. You agree to never have any guests over without explicitly asking me first. You agree to keep the place to a showroom standard level of cleanliness. I want that oven cleaned every week. You’ll need to water all the plants, vacuum and mop every week. You’re not to play and loud music. You can’t smoke weed indoors. Anything that’s already in the cupboards has to stay there - but any food and shit you need NEEDS to stay in the cupboards! Aside from driving me around, you’ll do my laundry, sort out my merch post, respond to my emails when I need you to, get me food, cook and clean at request, give me recommendations on Netflix and most importantly, pay your rent on time every month. You agree to all of this.”
“... I mean, yeah man. I got no friends, got no job, I got all the time in the world to keep your place clean my guy. The weed thing, I can totally get that. The finest herbs need to be experienced outside!”
“Alright then,” Joey sighed as he jotted his initials and signature down, “Just sign here, gimme the deposit and she’s as good as yours.”
Scott moved over to Crash like he was on a space walk and giggled, took the pen and signed on the dotted line. He handed the pen back with a grin.
“So if you want to watch some dope ass shit on Netflix, there’s this competition about glass blowing dude. Oh, it’s so sick! You’ve got like ten amazing glass people, and there’s judges, and they make shit every week - and shit’s hot dude, there’s fire everywhere. Anyway, half of it doesn’t even look like glass. It’s sick, dude. My favourite part, especially when I’m cooked, is there’s a judge who makes these puns for every glass object in the show. And it’s like, they’re inside my head because they’re making these jokes and saying them before I can even think’em, it’s the best!”
Joey gawped at him and tried to take in everything he’d said. His instinct was to shut him up but there was something curiously pleasant about him. Scott was like a stoned golden retriever.
“Wait… What’s the point in the glass things not looking like glass? Isn’t that the whole point of glass sculptures?”
“Hawwwww dude!” Scott draped an arm around Crash’s shoulders and beamed at him. “You have a lot to learn, my guy!”
Can you get cucked by someone if you’re not in a relationship with them?
“Hey! We’re here!”
Joey jolted awake. The cab driver was looking back at him expectantly. The number on the meter said it was over forty bucks. Crash checked his wallet and only had a couple tens. He thought back to the fifty he left at the diner and sighed with frustration.
“Drive me to an ATM.”
“There are lots of ways to define a fighter. You can judge them by their accomplishments, their biggest scalps and shiniest belts. Sure, you’ve won your share of belts in the past. But you can also judge them based on their notoriety. What have they done that’s made them stick in the minds of everyone else? I feel like nobody knows how to judge you yet. I don’t. You’re trying to fast track your way to success. I don’t give advice very often but I’m going to let you have this pearl of wisdom. You’re doing it wrong.”
“Take it from the guy who won the Final Boss Championship before I’d even had my tenth match in Level Up. There are ways to do everything you’re currently doing but ten times better. You need to figure out what you’re good at and put all your energy into that one thing. There’s no glory in being an all-rounder in today’s economy. Being great at everything means you’ll never be the best at anything, and that’s the fucking truth. That’s exactly where you are, Jay-Jay. You’re at the crossroads of greatness, in the middle of fuck all junction. You’re sitting there, not sure where to go. Holding up all the traffic. And now you’re about to get T-boned by an eighteen wheeler.”
“Amber Payne really got in your head, didn’t she? Living rent free in that old noggin of yours. I mean yeah she messed your face up - more than it was already - but you got the last laugh when you choked the shit out of her at Combat Evolved. You damn near killed a woman! Not necessarily something to be proud of but in this context I’ll give you a pat on the back. You got one over on the ‘Nightmare Angel’. It was impressive, everyone enjoyed it - almost everyone - and we all went on our merry way. But then at EXP 31 you came back like a bad smell and gave us a rerun. Trust me, destroying Amber Payne hasn’t been done so well or for so long that it’s one of your greatest hits. It’s a bit too early for repeat performances buddy. I’ve not seen anyone so desperate for attention since I saw child in the orphanage window.”
“That brings you to me. If you thought you were going to make a name for yourself off of Joey Crash then I’m sorry to say you’re deeply mistaken. Very misguided. Fucking stupid is what it is. I’m not going to mince my words here, because you’re a grown man and I can pretend to respect you for long enough to tell it to you straight. You’re not the finished product. You’re stuck somewhere in the beta and have no idea how to move forward. You don’t know what you want, how to get it or why you even do it. But I’m not a complete monster. I get that when you washed up with in the middle of all the vagrants from FIGHT NYC that you needed to get your name out there. You’ve had a couple good chances but so far you’ve basically ended up at square one. The powers that be have decided that whatever you’ve done is impressive enough to put you across the ring from the cunt who dipped his hand in cement and fucking leathered Bert McAlroy and Duncan whatshisface. I might not be standing across from you as the champion but I know who the fuck I am. I know what’s going to happen when we clash. And I know for all your menacing bells and whistles, you’re a knife short of a cutlery set.”
“Oh and by the way - I’m the piledriver king around these parts, you slag.”
After checking out of the motel he left with his bag in tow. He gave the straps a good tug - another reminder there was no gold to weigh him down. He knew what he was going to feel before he jerked the bag up towards him but it’d become a habit recently to remind himself that he always had something to work towards. He was empty.
The diner across the road was busy, he figured the motel and this cheap watering hole probably kept each other in business. The waitress soon found him at a corner booth he’d stolen to himself to serve a patronising smile and a menu. She was pale with blonde dyed hair that had an inch of brown at the roots. She poured a mug of coffee and turned away. Joey checked the time on his phone, and the time in London. It was almost the evening back there, so he asked for a whisky. She smiled, judging him all the while and said, “Sure thing, honey.”
He didn’t finish his food, it was nothing to write home about. His whisky went down with a bite but smoothly - as did his second. He conceded that no amount of whisky or idle chit chat with a woman on the clock could resolve his concerns. Sophie, the daughter of his late manager had been on his mind the entire past two days. She’d not returned any calls or DM’s. Nor had she decided to go and find him like she usually did. He’d posted his location online publicly, as if she’d needed him to do that to find her. In the end he was alone. Nobody went to look for him. Sophie was probably lying in the arms of his tenant, Scott. If it was even the same Sophie. Sophie Smyth is as common and fake sounding of a name as they come. Whose to say they’re the same person? Whose to say that the daughter of his late manager isn’t the same person who went to school with the guy who lives in his flat? Whose to say that the person who slept with him and left, never to be seen or heard from ever again, has just had sex in Joey’s bed with another man?
That last thought sent a wave of anxiety through him. The waitress came by with a check and he asked for a third whisky to finish. She obliged and scurried away with all the enthusiasm of someone whose not paid enough to wait tables or tipped enough to give a shit. He felt that. When she returned with the shot he backed it in one and left a fifty.
He jumped in the back of a cab and allowed himself to doze off. The last minute travel to the show from Toronto, the drinking and everything else on his mind was enough. He dozed off and couldn’t help but think about how he’d met Scott in the first place. He’d decided not to live in the brand new apartment in Grand Rapids he’d bought after becoming Final Boss Champion. There was no soul. No real sense of belonging. But the fucking paperwork meant he was signed in for the long haul. So he’d decided to put an ad in the paper and online and see what fish bit. As it turned out, when you offer cheap rent you get a big turnout. He deliberately rearranged countless interviews and phone calls, and eventually all but two people gave up. One of the remaining enquirers was Scott, who seemed so chill about the whole thing that he wouldn’t have given a fuck if he was rejected. Of course, Joey knew this was the right guy for the job.
“So you’re happy?” Joey said, eyeing Scott carefully to make sure he understood what he was agreeing to. He’d looked like he’d probably been sussed out by police a few times - most likely because this dude looked like he was perma high.
“Yeah, it’s chill. The place is nice and I need a place to sleep, man.” Scott kept his hands half clasped together on his lap as if they were too heavy to go anywhere else.
“So just to reiterate so there’s no confusion,” Crash insisted on continuing, “You agree to sublet the place from me and you have access to all the amenities of the building. Gym, pool, laundry, whatever. You’ll get it at the discounted rate agreed on the contract subject to the following conditions… You still following?”
“... Chyah.”
“Right. So… Whenever I’m in town, I’m going to need favours. You’re mostly going to be driving me around wherever I need to go. You agree to never have any guests over without explicitly asking me first. You agree to keep the place to a showroom standard level of cleanliness. I want that oven cleaned every week. You’ll need to water all the plants, vacuum and mop every week. You’re not to play and loud music. You can’t smoke weed indoors. Anything that’s already in the cupboards has to stay there - but any food and shit you need NEEDS to stay in the cupboards! Aside from driving me around, you’ll do my laundry, sort out my merch post, respond to my emails when I need you to, get me food, cook and clean at request, give me recommendations on Netflix and most importantly, pay your rent on time every month. You agree to all of this.”
“... I mean, yeah man. I got no friends, got no job, I got all the time in the world to keep your place clean my guy. The weed thing, I can totally get that. The finest herbs need to be experienced outside!”
“Alright then,” Joey sighed as he jotted his initials and signature down, “Just sign here, gimme the deposit and she’s as good as yours.”
Scott moved over to Crash like he was on a space walk and giggled, took the pen and signed on the dotted line. He handed the pen back with a grin.
“So if you want to watch some dope ass shit on Netflix, there’s this competition about glass blowing dude. Oh, it’s so sick! You’ve got like ten amazing glass people, and there’s judges, and they make shit every week - and shit’s hot dude, there’s fire everywhere. Anyway, half of it doesn’t even look like glass. It’s sick, dude. My favourite part, especially when I’m cooked, is there’s a judge who makes these puns for every glass object in the show. And it’s like, they’re inside my head because they’re making these jokes and saying them before I can even think’em, it’s the best!”
Joey gawped at him and tried to take in everything he’d said. His instinct was to shut him up but there was something curiously pleasant about him. Scott was like a stoned golden retriever.
“Wait… What’s the point in the glass things not looking like glass? Isn’t that the whole point of glass sculptures?”
“Hawwwww dude!” Scott draped an arm around Crash’s shoulders and beamed at him. “You have a lot to learn, my guy!”
Can you get cucked by someone if you’re not in a relationship with them?
“Hey! We’re here!”
Joey jolted awake. The cab driver was looking back at him expectantly. The number on the meter said it was over forty bucks. Crash checked his wallet and only had a couple tens. He thought back to the fifty he left at the diner and sighed with frustration.
“Drive me to an ATM.”
[REC]
“There are lots of ways to define a fighter. You can judge them by their accomplishments, their biggest scalps and shiniest belts. Sure, you’ve won your share of belts in the past. But you can also judge them based on their notoriety. What have they done that’s made them stick in the minds of everyone else? I feel like nobody knows how to judge you yet. I don’t. You’re trying to fast track your way to success. I don’t give advice very often but I’m going to let you have this pearl of wisdom. You’re doing it wrong.”
“Take it from the guy who won the Final Boss Championship before I’d even had my tenth match in Level Up. There are ways to do everything you’re currently doing but ten times better. You need to figure out what you’re good at and put all your energy into that one thing. There’s no glory in being an all-rounder in today’s economy. Being great at everything means you’ll never be the best at anything, and that’s the fucking truth. That’s exactly where you are, Jay-Jay. You’re at the crossroads of greatness, in the middle of fuck all junction. You’re sitting there, not sure where to go. Holding up all the traffic. And now you’re about to get T-boned by an eighteen wheeler.”
“Amber Payne really got in your head, didn’t she? Living rent free in that old noggin of yours. I mean yeah she messed your face up - more than it was already - but you got the last laugh when you choked the shit out of her at Combat Evolved. You damn near killed a woman! Not necessarily something to be proud of but in this context I’ll give you a pat on the back. You got one over on the ‘Nightmare Angel’. It was impressive, everyone enjoyed it - almost everyone - and we all went on our merry way. But then at EXP 31 you came back like a bad smell and gave us a rerun. Trust me, destroying Amber Payne hasn’t been done so well or for so long that it’s one of your greatest hits. It’s a bit too early for repeat performances buddy. I’ve not seen anyone so desperate for attention since I saw child in the orphanage window.”
“That brings you to me. If you thought you were going to make a name for yourself off of Joey Crash then I’m sorry to say you’re deeply mistaken. Very misguided. Fucking stupid is what it is. I’m not going to mince my words here, because you’re a grown man and I can pretend to respect you for long enough to tell it to you straight. You’re not the finished product. You’re stuck somewhere in the beta and have no idea how to move forward. You don’t know what you want, how to get it or why you even do it. But I’m not a complete monster. I get that when you washed up with in the middle of all the vagrants from FIGHT NYC that you needed to get your name out there. You’ve had a couple good chances but so far you’ve basically ended up at square one. The powers that be have decided that whatever you’ve done is impressive enough to put you across the ring from the cunt who dipped his hand in cement and fucking leathered Bert McAlroy and Duncan whatshisface. I might not be standing across from you as the champion but I know who the fuck I am. I know what’s going to happen when we clash. And I know for all your menacing bells and whistles, you’re a knife short of a cutlery set.”
“Oh and by the way - I’m the piledriver king around these parts, you slag.”
