Post by Madman on Mar 10, 2013 3:38:25 GMT -5
Six and a half years ago tomorrow.
“Eat it! Eat it you sonuvabitch!”he yelled. Joe gritted his teeth together trying to resist. The wiry old man dug his knee deeper into Joe’s back and tugged even harder on his hair. The aggressor reached down and scooped up another handful of dirt, mud, soil, and tiny rocks with his free hand. The old man tried once more, he slapped his hand against Joe’s face and rubbed it against his closed mouth and chin. Though Joe Martinez was in agony he made sure he wouldn't give anyone the satisfaction. He bit down and clenched his jaw, groaning in pain while trying to figure out a way out of the situation.
Joe could hear the two laughing.This was supposed to be an “eat dirt” match, which was literally what it sounded like. The two representatives from the internet site that recorded this crap and then resold it for untold profits. If he managed to win he would make a handful of dollars. The two who were filming this were both laughing and trying to make off the wall commentary. The first was college age, a typical hip youth with a flannel shirt, thick rimmed glasses and a stupidly large grin. At the moment, Joe could barely make out the second one’s silly wool sweater from the corner of his eye. They were making light of the situation, which though agreed to, was anything but enjoyable for Martinez.
“I said eat it!” yelled the old man once more. The guy was about twice, if not thrice Joe’s age easily. He was a foot shorter, thin built, with a carpet of short white hair covering the bottom half of his face. He hadn't looked as vicious as he was. The moment the two had said “Go” to signal the beginning of the match, the old man (Who Joe was told was named Willy) immediately leaped up and grabbed Joe by his hair. He hadn't stopped pummeling him since. The old man had rock-like knuckles that kept finding their target on Martinez’s face. He had gone down blindly swinging in desperation, only to be dazed and finally thrown down.
The sensation of misery was now running up and down the Madman’s entire back as ‘Willy’ wedged his knee deeper. Every attempt to thrash around or dislodge his attacker was futile; there was just too much leverage. Powering out was to no avail and he was in no position to retaliate. It looked like humiliation and defeat were unavoidable. By now the torment was completely unbearable. Joe caught a “bites the dust” comment as he slipped away from consciousness. The very last thing he heard was the snickering of onlookers and the frantic angry yelling of an older assailant. The last thing he tasted was grainy, earthen, and unpleasant. Then there was black.
When Joe returned to the waking world, the moon was well into its nightly journey. He hadn't been awake to witness it rise at all. Joe coughed out a mouthful of bitter sandy defeat. He felt a slightly familiar coppery taste; upon inspection of the pile he had spit up he saw the source, a newly missing tooth. Joe groaned as he struggled to his feet. He checked himself for anymore wounds and noticed another type of damage he had taken, his pockets had been emptied. After a round of retching, Joe wandered away from the location of his fight. In the darkness the abandoned buildings took on a labyrinth-like quality to their layout. He made his way towards the main street and started walking towards where he remembered parking his car. Hopefully it was still there.
Joe eventually made his way back to his car. It still being there was a start. A big sigh was all he could muster; with no way to get in, breaking a window was his only option. After a bit of deliberation the decision was made to hold off for a bit. How far could that bum really get? The memory of the failed conflict latched on to Joe’s persona and dragged his spirits to a subterranean abyss of woe. Joe was parched and he felt like washing off some of the grime and dried blood on his person. He recalled a park nearby.
Shambling to the public recreation area like the cadaverous undead, Joe approached the fountain at the center and cupped water into his hands. He drank, he rinsed the grittiness from his mouth, and he splashed his face with water. Eventually he plunged his face into the fountain and considered holding it there until he lost touch with mortality. Joe decided against it, he spotted some change that was ripe for the taking. After taking some of the larger denominations of coins, he decided he would relieve himself and set off to the public bathrooms.
A familiar snickering was the first thing that made Joe apprehensive. He approached the facilities, hearing signs of struggle and yelling. “You sonuvabitch!” he heard a voice say. Immediately,the dull aches he had about his body began to throb, adrenaline boosted his heart rate, sweat began forming on his brow. Joe poked his head in confirming his suspicions; it was the two cameramen/commentators from earlier. In the bathroom he saw the same wiry foe from earlier. He was currently beating on two other transients. One lay on the ground in the corner, thick globs of coagulating blood resting under his nose, he lay staring into space, yelling a slurred string of profanity. The second was currently having his head rammed into a sink. Willy shoved an already bloody head into a faucet and screamed something that was impossible to hear over the racket. Joe heard the twosome say something that made it very clear what was going on. “Remember Willy, you gotta shove his head in the toilet or the swirly match is no good.” The man in Willy’s clutches made a weak attempt to break free upon hearing the stipulation“ Leave me alone! I don’t want nothing to do with this.” He yelled.
Joe stepped inside without uttering a word. His heavy footfalls quieted everyone down. Willy dropped his victim and looked at Joe. “Oh back for more, eh?” Joe’s fear boiled over into a pool of pure rage. He felt his breath coming in heavy puffs. “You picked my pockets.” He said. “Yer damn right I did, you sonuvabitch!” Willy said while sneering at Joe. He looked at the duo with the recording equipment. “This one good to dunk?” he asked. The two shrugged enough approval for Willy. The opponent from earlier adopted a fighting stance and began to move towards Joe. As Willy reached out to grab him, Joe Martinez growled an unearthly sound from the depths of his chest. He was bigger, he was meaner, he was mad. The wiry old man grew wide eyed when he realized the Madman was coming his way with a fistful of vengeance to deliver.
Repeated blows landed all over Willy. No matter how hard he thought he had hit earlier, never in his life would he be able to put so much force behind a punch. The air escaped from his body, his sights became a blackened field of stars, his every sense was that of bludgeoning strikes repeatedly landing all along his frame. The Madman half roared half laughed as he unleashed a rampage of violence on Willy. He let loose a head butt that rocked Willy with the force of a cannonball. Finally he picked up that wretched wiry old bully and held him high above his head. He kicked open the toilet stall door. The sweet sensation of victory was all he could feel. The body rained down like a volley of arrows, meeting its porcelain defeat.
Joe left that bathroom with his belongings back and then some. He wasn't sure where the recording would end up of his triumph. If anything it was possibly incriminating evidence however at the moment it didn't matter. Joe marched back towards his car. He had most likely worn out his welcome in this place, time to move on.
The day after Meltdown 3.
Joe rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “OK, there you go Mr. Martinez, your check.” Joe reached out to grab the slip of paper, seven hundred whole dollars. It was his pay for the performance on Meltdown. He thanked the nice lady who had originally directed him on where to go the first time he had entered the building. Joe licked his lips at the thought of what he would do with this money.
The old hatchback slid into park in front of the “National Choice Bank” where Joe was going to open a bank account. He made his way inside and nodded politely at the first teller. It was a young woman in fashionable attire. “Yes, I need to open a bank account please.” The woman nodded and advised him to fill out a form. Joe filled everything out as best he could. After finishing he handed the form back.
“Sir, we need a valid address.” Joe sighed. He explained that he didn't exactly have one at the moment. “Well, we need proof of residence this helps prevent things like fraud.” Joe showed the woman his check; he assured her he was good for the money. He just needed to open an account to deposit his new income to. “Well sir, we need a place to mail your statements to.” Joe advised the woman that he could pick them up and would update them once he got a valid address. “Well sir, we would have no way of knowing it’s you, it could leave you open identity theft.” Joe bashed his fist into the teller window, “Well who the hell wants to steal my being? I can’t even open a damn bank account!” The woman jumped back frightened. Upon realizing what had happened, Joe decided it would be better if he left.
The old hatchback rumbled to a halt in the lot adjacent to the apartments. Joe had torn the ad out from a newspaper, studio sized apartment at four hundred fifty bucks monthly. It sounded perfect for his needs. Joe knocked on the door to apartment 101. A middle aged woman with poorly dyed red hair in a near bowl cut answered.“You here for the place?” she asked. Joe nodded. He was given a brief tour, which consisted of opening the door to the apartment and pointing to the space.The woman asked for a check. “I don’t exactly have one to write you just yet.” He explained. Joe laid out his plan, allow him to be a resident there, he would have an address, which he could give to the bank to open up a bank account and then he could return with the check. The woman shook her head. “Can’t have it sonny. Need my money or at least a check up front. I've been burned before.” Joe clenched his fists and decided this was a battle he couldn't punch his way out of. He would just have to suck up being treated like the dirt he had swallowed so long ago.
The old hatchback came to a halt before the North Atlantic Wrestling headquarters once more. Joe marched up to the nice lady, he wasn't sure if she was a receptionist or what but he did appreciate her polite mannerism. Currently however his disdain and frustration were written clearly on his face. “Any chance I can get this in cash?” he asked. The woman was taken aback a bit by the question. She grabbed the check and took a look at his face and decided against arguing. “Well,”she started, her polite demeanor returning immediately. “I’ll go check and see what we can do.” A few moments later she returned hurriedly cradling a stack of thirty five 20 dollar bills and handed Joe his pay. He nodded graciously and left the building, intent on heading straight for the twenty dollar a night motel he had seen on his way into town…