Featuring: Jason O'Neil Date: Timeless Event: Locationless.
A week ago, Jason O'Neil was on top of his game until three slaps to the mat and an explosive cheer derailed both his spirit and his psyche. He'd done what he'd done in the past -- work hard, come back from being the underdog, and come within literal moments of being on top of the world, only to see it all fade away. It was his modus operandi, and the accepted normal. No one hired Jason O'Neil to win the big one, because Jason O'Neil couldn't win the big one.
He was a worker, and nothing more. A guy who could take a tremendous bump, and didn't mind being paid in liquid. Promoters would bring cases of scotch, that O'Neil would take home, forgetting to collect his cash for the night, being too shitfaced to care about money. He worked in the ring, took care of his partner, and got drunk after the match. He was a dream to work with, and never complained about the loss.
His last victory came in 2007 over some schmuck named Dusk. He didn't care much then, and doesn't think of it now. He was on the road to redemption, and derailed it being Jason O'Neil. Another big one that slipped away, he supposed.
He lie in the back, his eyes focused on the ceiling, looking at nothing in particular. Fellow wrestlers congratulated him on a match well done, and by the time Jay Terror's arm was raised in victory, O'Neil didn't care any longer. He reached into his bag, and removed his decanter, taking a big plug from the bottle of scotch.
"Screw it," he said, as he saw his career nose dive once more, crashing and burning in the fire of his own ineptitude. "I can battle back. I'm strong. I'm somewhat young. I've got work ethic. I've got--" he paused to take a second swig in as many moments, the familiar burn in his throat as he exhaled a calming breath. "--time."
The blue light lit his tragus as the tiny electronic device vibrated his inner ear. O'Neil took a moment before pressing the button to answer the call. "Yeah?" he said, not caring who was on the other end, pouring himself a Dixie cup of the near empty decanter.
"Jason O'Neil?" the female voice said on the other end. Her voice was cool and dripping with sensuality. He took notice immediately and sat up a little,
"Yeah?" he asked, his inflection different.
"Mister O'Neil, it's a pleasure. You don't know who I am but I saw your performance tonight."
"Ah. Well, sorry for the disappointment you must feel being a fan of--"
"I'm not a fan. A casual observer, you could say."
"Oh. That hurts."
"Come on. Are you surprised you barely have a fan anymore? You've done nothing of note since 2003. And even that was you being pinned by Angelo De--" O'Neil's eyes opened wide, his face reddening.
"Okay, I'm going to stop you right there. I worked my ass off tonight. I just came--"
"--Up short? Story of your career, Mister O'Neil."
Clearly annoyed, he threw the Dixie cup across the room, expecting a much more dramatic effect than he got, the tiny splash of the wasted drink not providing the satisfying shatter he was looking for. "Who are you to criticize my career? Who the fuck are you?"
"I'm a concerned party. That's all you need know at this time. But, we're going to have fun together, I can tell. May I call you back?"
"If your next call is as awful as this one, no. You may not call me. In fact, forget it. I don't need a concerned party, and if you're trying to be a friend, you suck at that, too. Good-bye."
He pulled the device out of his ear, and laid it on the bench next to him, taking a swig out of the decanter, only to find the last few drops enter his mouth.
The calls persisted for days. The woman berated him to the point where Jason simply tried to ignore her constant barrage of abuse and hate.
"You weren't going to do it. You know that, right?"
"Fuck you," Jason O'Neil spat into his glass of scotch, staring a hole through the bottom. He grimaced as the Auchentochan (Ock-en-TOSH-en) burned his throat, his face wincing slightly. It was a taste he'd hated years ago. He couldn't imagine a day without it now.
"You... You legitimately think you had a chance, didn't you?"
"I don't want to talk about this right now. Can't I enjoy my drink?"
"No. I'm not finished. I can't believe tha--"
"This conversation is over," he said, reaching up and touching the glowing blue button in his ear. He smiled and took another drink finishing the glass, pointing for one more from the bartender. She obliged as the blue light went off again. He pulled the infernal device out of his ear and placed it on the bar under a napkin, and proceeded to quote his favorite biblical verse from Romans I Beer:30
"Goeth to the nearest inn, and findeth the Jack of Daniels, so that ye may be shitfaced!" he said with a chuckle, tossing back his scotch.
The Scarecrow had his demons this much was true. They crept in after he'd left GCW the first time, his career tailspinning in and out of control since. There was his demon of self-doubt that crippled him the most, each moment a battle with his own mind, wondering if he could do something. It started with big matches -- Could O'Neil win the big one -- which was answered rather quickly with a resounding "NO". Fair enough, there were plenty of stars who never won the big one, and had fantastic careers, O'Neil likely chief among them.
Doubt, however, is a funny thing. If there's one thing you fail at, everything comes into question, and there were lots of questions to answer. He failed in love, failed as a parent. He failed at keeping himself safe, and nearly failed at keeping himself alive. And now? He's afraid of failing to tie his shoes. Doubt is a demon of his mind that could only be silenced with bottle upon bottle of scotch, whiskey, beer, anything. Even sometimes when desperate, mouthwash, rubbing alcohol and even NyQuil.
There were doubts about his sanity. He hadn't cried since before his wife left, and his emotions locked up tight inside of him. There were days that he felt like a robot, coldly going through life. The only emotion he could feel was "regular" which was somewhere between content and angry and full bore anger, his fists ready to fly at a moment's notice.
To quell this demon, Jason sank himself into love. Though it wasn't really love, it was more let's have sex for a while and I'll pretend to like you until I can't stand you, and then destroy your psyche for your next three or four lovers, too. It was this game that he excelled at, meeting random women with stars in their eyes and quivering thighs. He fucked them and resented them, immeditately. They were whores giving themselves so easily, and they had to pay, especially. The ones that didn't put out immediately were a challenge he didn't want or need, and they'd be discarded immediately for whatever reason he felt like at the time -- ears too big, face too round, eyes too far apart, bad tattoos, lopsided breasts, too many 'S' in her name, whatever.
Soon enough he wasn't even interested in his perverse sense of love, and decided to sink his time into Craigslist hookers. The premise and promise of an hour or two for just a few dollars intrigued him. He could rid his body of the evil fluids produced by his damnable gonads. To spill his seed was to rid himself of evil, and there was plenty of seed to spill, and plenty of cheap hookers willing to take his seed. They saw him as a celebrity, and the seed of celebrity growing in a desperate womb was money in the bank. Thankfully, he took the proper precaution for promiscuity.
The final demon was himself. Jason had become somewhat of an albatross to Jason, and thus, Jason wanted to kill Jason. There were no redeeming factors to being Jason O'Neil, and thus, it was time for Jason O'Neil to die. Not the wrestler -- he'd killed himself long ago -- the person. The physical body of Jason Francis O'Neil.
And so, the last thirty-eight mornings as he woke up, he reached beside him into his nightstand drawer. His mind, still in an inebriated fog, pulled a flask of whiskey, and a six chambered revolver. With a pull on the flask for courage, he spun the barrel. He took another drink, and put it to his head. The first time, he sweat, nervously. He very nearly chickened out before hearing the click.
He'd heard the click thirty-eight times in a row before this morning. He coolly went through his ritual. Flask then revolver. Drink then spin. Drink then temple. Drink then trig-- Phone call.
"Hello?" he said, groggily, pressing the blue button in his ear while looking at the phone and regretting pressing the answer button. It was her, the vile bitch that infuriated him to no end.
"Jason." the now familiar voice said.
"Oh, it's you. How apropos."
"I haven't spoken to you in--"
"Hours. Don't make it seem like we're long lost friends that need to catch up." He was far more comfortable interrupting her a week into their "relationship".
"Come on, Jason. There's not even a tiny bit of room in that heart for me?"
"Never." He still had no clue who she was. No name, no details. She seemed to get off on berating him, and he imagined she did just that. He imagined her laying in bed, wearing frilly things women like to wear, softly touching her curves, peaks and valleys as she told him how terrible he was. He never gave her the satisfaction of the climax, however. If she was getting the pleasure he imagined out of this, he was going to make it difficult for her. He liked the idea that he was frustrating her, and he made a game of it.
"Pity."
"So, let me guess what today's phone call is about. I suck, I'm worthless, I have no value to my life, I can't wrestle, I'm no good at life. Does that cover it?"
"You forgot that your lovemaking skills are merely adequate."
"Oh, right. Well, at least I can take solace that I'm not entirely awful at that."
"See? There's something, right?"
"You know what?"
"No, tell me what."
"I'm going to name you today, since you won't tell me your name. And that's what I'm going to call you for the duration of our conversation. How's that sound?"
"Mmmm... What's my name, Jason?" He voice dripped sensuality and sexuality. It was deep for a woman, her inflection almost Sarah Michelle Gellar in Cruel Intentions-like.
"Stephanie."
"Why Stephanie?"
"Because I knew a Stephanie once. She had a nice voice, and a great pair of tits. But, she was a bitch."
"Well, I guess I can't fight your logic. I do have nice breasts," she said with inflection on the proper word, to chastise him for calling them something dirty like tits. "And a nice voice. And I'm a bitch. But, even though my name isn't Stephanie, you can call me that."
"Good. And now, I'm going to say goodbye. I have other things to do that don't involve you berating me."
"Have I berated you yet?"
"Yet, being the operative word. Goodbye." He pressed the blue button in his ear again. He'd gotten over on her, finally. Now that she had a name, he wanted to forget about her. He'd ruined her illusion, and now that she was something, someone, a name with his imagined face, he could say goodbye, and forget about her.
He took another swig of the flask and pointed the gun at his closet door. He relaxed his grip as the gun fired for the first time in thirty-eight days, the recoil catching him by surprise. He stared at the weapon, bewildered, light plumes of bluish-gray smoke emptying from the barrel and the reality of the situation setting in.
"Are you satisfied now, Jason?" the voice said again, only this time, it wasn't in is ear.
It was somewhere next to him.