Post by Tomas Luger on Nov 15, 2008 2:48:11 GMT -5
Arthur Cummings stood on the ledge and peered below. Cars rushed by on the busy street, but from his lofty perch they looked like giant, multi-colored ants scurrying to and fro. Arthur envied all those people down there, with something to live for.
Arthur had nothing left to live for, except one final leap of faith.
Art Cummings was ever so close to making senior partner at Lyemann and Bausch. He was a nasty prosecutor with a knack for digging up wins in unlikely cases. He’s made a career out of it, and had been closing some big cases lately.
Charles Bausch called Art into his office two days ago and told him to pack up his office. Cummings heart dropped until ‘ol Chuck told him he would be moved into a much bigger, corner office and would be considered for a senior partner position.
Arthur went home early to deliver the good news to his wife, but she had some news of her own.
Art walked in on Michelle Cummings in bed with another woman.
It was, of course, the end of the marriage and the end of the world for poor Arthur. He always fantasized about getting his wife into bed with another woman, but he was typically involved. She left him and told him that she was indeed leaving him and moving with her girlfriend to Connecticut.
So Arthur stood just outside the window of his new corner office, just waiting to fly to his death.
And then, the cleaning lady ruined everything.
Art had stayed late, but forgot to lock his office door. One of the several cleaning personnel came into vacuum and empty the trash and saw Arthur on the ledge. She called the police, they called in a negotiator and a simple suicide turned into a four hour standoff. Eventually Arthur was talked off the ledge by a negotiator, but he lost his job.
No family, no job and no hope led Art to spend through his savings on booze, drugs and whores. When that ran out, he turned to the streets and began begging for spare change.
What was once one of the most feared lawyers in New Jersey had turned into one of the most degrading vagabonds living the streets.
Arthur turned near savage, he either forgot how to speak or forsook speaking and he refused to go to a shelter to seek help. He always wanted to die, and this would be the way. Cold, hungry and alone.
Only six months after beginning his downward spiral, Arthur decided death wasn’t coming fast enough. He upped the ante. He stole a shotgun from his brother-in-law’s house and decided to hold up a convenience store in one of the most dangerous parts of the a Newark slum. Unfortunately for poor Arthur, his lack of luck held out and he was arrested on the way to his death for a myriad of felonies. It seems walking ten miles with a stolen shotgun dragging behind you on the sidewalks and roads will alert unwanted attention.
After serving six months in a rehab facility, Arthur was turned loose upon society once again, and he immediately went back to begging for money for drugs and liquor.
He was outside of a Seven-Eleven on a fateful day when a cocky S.O.B. pulled up in a cherry ‘64, jet black Impala. That man took him in and gave him a purpose again.
He was now the stinky, drug and alcohol addicted, shiftless attorney to Tomas Luger. Frank Stinknatra to most, but there was one person who knew what he once was, and what he yet may be capable of doing...
****
“Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome to the stage the lovely Summer Sinn...”
Summer took the stage for what seemed like the fiftieth time that night. She was working a double at Centerfolds, the third double shift in the last four days. Stripping wasn’t easy, but it was a living.
Summer had to pull long hours taking her clothes off for grabby, horny, slimy scumbags because her abusive, drunk, scumbag boyfriend didn’t work.
Well, technically he didn’t work. See, he was in the business of setting people with a couple hundred dollars up with his girlfriend.
Rod Starke was the owner of Centerfolds, and Summer was not only his girlfriend, but his number one dancer. So much so, in fact, that he pimped her out to high profile clients and made her work long hours for what was essentially room and board and a little money to scrape by with.
Summer hated Rod, but she couldn’t leave him. He’d kill her. He told her so, several times a day. Every day in the week. Fifty two weeks a year, for the last year and a half. She was by no means a weak woman, but she was scared. He was rumored to have mob connections and some of the clientele he kept, that she was forced to fuck, were obviously not good guys.
But Summer, like an obedient dog, came when called and fucked on command, and she hated every minute of it.
If she refused, she was beaten.
If she missed a shift for any reason, she was beaten.
If a client complained about her performance, she was beaten.
Rod once put a cigarette out on her thigh when she dared to talk back. Then he beat her with a belt, leaving welts and scars on her back.
But the scum who attended the club didn’t mind the wounds. She had nice tits and a pretty face and her pimp of a boyfriend whored her out and everyone knew it.
Business was never better.
But on this night, during this particular double shift, she happened to see a new face in the crowd. He was tall, and rather good looking. He was muscular and had an air of bravado about him that was unusual for the type of customer that the club attracted.
Her heart sank when she saw this new face talking to Rod. Seems she wouldn’t get a break at all tonight.
Rod came back stage after her show and after a nice groping, informed her to report to the penthouse above the club for a high roller. At least this new face had money.
When she got there, the handsome rogue was already there. He had poored a scotch, neet, and was idling about. She entered and snaked a hand around his waste and grabbed his cock. He turned, obviously shocked at the forwardness, and removed her hand.
He explained that he was sort of new to paying for sex, as he’d just broke up with a long time girlfriend.
Instead of sex, the two managed to talk for two hours. His name, she learned, was Tomas Luger and he was professional wrestler. She wasn’t sure why, but she told him all about the abuse when he asked about her scars.
After they’d had almost four hours of conversation, there was a knock on the door. It was Rod.
He saw that there had been no sex and he immediately assumed that Summer had tricked this new face with big money into some sort of non-fucking deal. He slapped her across the face. That’s the last time he ever used his arms again.
After that night, he couldn’t beat anyone again because he was now a quadriplegic.
Alexis never forgot that night...
****
Terry Walsh and his Girlfriend Darlene were junkies with a problem. They’d had a kid, and of course what would two meth heads want with a meth addicted child?
So they did what any responsible person would do, they dumped the child off on an orphanage’s front step and peeled tires.
The poor child was taken to a hospital and put on treatment to flush his system. He survived, miraculously, but was rendered mentally slow by the drugs that had infected his system.
When the boy was eight, he was put into a foster home. It should have been the happiest day of his life, but this foster home ended up being a nightmare.
The lad was ridiculed by the family’s “real” kids. Because of his mental state they made him eat shit, they sodomized him and tortured him fiercely. The parents either didn’t know, or more likely, didn’t care. They knew he had brain damage from infancy and just assumed he was lying or hurting himself.
He cried constantly and became overweight quickly, finding his solace in food. The family eventually sent him back to the orphanage because he was, “A bad influence on our good kids”.
The boy wanted to go to a good family. He knew the difference between good and evil, right and wrong, but he found himself incapable of doing anything about his situation.
The years rolled by, and still the boy was stuck in the orphanage. He didn’t want to go live with another family like the last one, but he desperately wanted someone to look up to. A father, a mother, a brother or sister maybe, but they had to be ever so kind.
Finally, on the eve of his twelfth birthday, he happened to overhear voices in the family room of the house that he lived in with the other children. He normally paid no attention to adoption director talking to potential parents, because they almost always want much younger, happier kids.
However, these voices were saying that they wanted an older child, capable of functioning outside of diapers and feeding schedules.
The childs heart leapt. He ran at once to the dining room to try to sneak a peek at his potentially new parents.
They looked young. The woman was awfully pretty and had a fierce intensity in her eyes. The man looked huge and had a look of jovial mockery about him. He almost felt crushed. He knew enough from other potential parents to know that this couple was far too young to adopt anyone, let alone a twelve year old boy with severe mental problems.
As he was about to slink away he heard the director call to him. She must have seen him in the dining room and so she beckoned him to come over.
“Herbert Humphries Walsh, I want you to meet Tomas Luger and Alexis Malone.”
****
So you see, Eno, everyone has a story to tell. Most of the ones worth hearing about tend to be tales of sorrow.
You’re not so different from myself, or any member of my family.
The Rabble isn’t just a clique or a stable in the ring. They are my blood.
I lost my parents when I was five. I don’t know what happened to them, probably never will. They dropped me off at a daycare and I never saw them again. I became a ward of the state of New York and was my own entity on my eighteenth birthday.
The difference between us is I don’t base my life off of the sad shit that happened to me long ago.
Job, I respect you as a wrestler. You are the TWD Heavyweight Champion.
But as a human being, I can honestly say that you make me look like a saint. That ain’t easy pal, so congratulations.
When I go home at night, and I step away from the ring, I take off Tomas Luger and step into my normal guy outfit.
When I’m not in the ring, I’ve had my heart broken. I’ve felt grief, regret, anger, joy. I’m not always some jack ass trying to make a buck and cheating the system, along with everyone else.
The fans, the Lugernauts, they pay to see me act like a clown. I do my best and hope it’s enough. Whether I beat you or not this Saturday at The Devil’s Dance is a moot point to me, because at the end of the day the fans will still love me, champion or no. I’ll still have a family to go home to, even if we’re not the typical kind of American “white picket fence” family.
What do you have?
Win, lose or draw, Job, I’ve already beaten you.
You just don’t realize it yet.
Arthur had nothing left to live for, except one final leap of faith.
Art Cummings was ever so close to making senior partner at Lyemann and Bausch. He was a nasty prosecutor with a knack for digging up wins in unlikely cases. He’s made a career out of it, and had been closing some big cases lately.
Charles Bausch called Art into his office two days ago and told him to pack up his office. Cummings heart dropped until ‘ol Chuck told him he would be moved into a much bigger, corner office and would be considered for a senior partner position.
Arthur went home early to deliver the good news to his wife, but she had some news of her own.
Art walked in on Michelle Cummings in bed with another woman.
It was, of course, the end of the marriage and the end of the world for poor Arthur. He always fantasized about getting his wife into bed with another woman, but he was typically involved. She left him and told him that she was indeed leaving him and moving with her girlfriend to Connecticut.
So Arthur stood just outside the window of his new corner office, just waiting to fly to his death.
And then, the cleaning lady ruined everything.
Art had stayed late, but forgot to lock his office door. One of the several cleaning personnel came into vacuum and empty the trash and saw Arthur on the ledge. She called the police, they called in a negotiator and a simple suicide turned into a four hour standoff. Eventually Arthur was talked off the ledge by a negotiator, but he lost his job.
No family, no job and no hope led Art to spend through his savings on booze, drugs and whores. When that ran out, he turned to the streets and began begging for spare change.
What was once one of the most feared lawyers in New Jersey had turned into one of the most degrading vagabonds living the streets.
Arthur turned near savage, he either forgot how to speak or forsook speaking and he refused to go to a shelter to seek help. He always wanted to die, and this would be the way. Cold, hungry and alone.
Only six months after beginning his downward spiral, Arthur decided death wasn’t coming fast enough. He upped the ante. He stole a shotgun from his brother-in-law’s house and decided to hold up a convenience store in one of the most dangerous parts of the a Newark slum. Unfortunately for poor Arthur, his lack of luck held out and he was arrested on the way to his death for a myriad of felonies. It seems walking ten miles with a stolen shotgun dragging behind you on the sidewalks and roads will alert unwanted attention.
After serving six months in a rehab facility, Arthur was turned loose upon society once again, and he immediately went back to begging for money for drugs and liquor.
He was outside of a Seven-Eleven on a fateful day when a cocky S.O.B. pulled up in a cherry ‘64, jet black Impala. That man took him in and gave him a purpose again.
He was now the stinky, drug and alcohol addicted, shiftless attorney to Tomas Luger. Frank Stinknatra to most, but there was one person who knew what he once was, and what he yet may be capable of doing...
****
“Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome to the stage the lovely Summer Sinn...”
Summer took the stage for what seemed like the fiftieth time that night. She was working a double at Centerfolds, the third double shift in the last four days. Stripping wasn’t easy, but it was a living.
Summer had to pull long hours taking her clothes off for grabby, horny, slimy scumbags because her abusive, drunk, scumbag boyfriend didn’t work.
Well, technically he didn’t work. See, he was in the business of setting people with a couple hundred dollars up with his girlfriend.
Rod Starke was the owner of Centerfolds, and Summer was not only his girlfriend, but his number one dancer. So much so, in fact, that he pimped her out to high profile clients and made her work long hours for what was essentially room and board and a little money to scrape by with.
Summer hated Rod, but she couldn’t leave him. He’d kill her. He told her so, several times a day. Every day in the week. Fifty two weeks a year, for the last year and a half. She was by no means a weak woman, but she was scared. He was rumored to have mob connections and some of the clientele he kept, that she was forced to fuck, were obviously not good guys.
But Summer, like an obedient dog, came when called and fucked on command, and she hated every minute of it.
If she refused, she was beaten.
If she missed a shift for any reason, she was beaten.
If a client complained about her performance, she was beaten.
Rod once put a cigarette out on her thigh when she dared to talk back. Then he beat her with a belt, leaving welts and scars on her back.
But the scum who attended the club didn’t mind the wounds. She had nice tits and a pretty face and her pimp of a boyfriend whored her out and everyone knew it.
Business was never better.
But on this night, during this particular double shift, she happened to see a new face in the crowd. He was tall, and rather good looking. He was muscular and had an air of bravado about him that was unusual for the type of customer that the club attracted.
Her heart sank when she saw this new face talking to Rod. Seems she wouldn’t get a break at all tonight.
Rod came back stage after her show and after a nice groping, informed her to report to the penthouse above the club for a high roller. At least this new face had money.
When she got there, the handsome rogue was already there. He had poored a scotch, neet, and was idling about. She entered and snaked a hand around his waste and grabbed his cock. He turned, obviously shocked at the forwardness, and removed her hand.
He explained that he was sort of new to paying for sex, as he’d just broke up with a long time girlfriend.
Instead of sex, the two managed to talk for two hours. His name, she learned, was Tomas Luger and he was professional wrestler. She wasn’t sure why, but she told him all about the abuse when he asked about her scars.
After they’d had almost four hours of conversation, there was a knock on the door. It was Rod.
He saw that there had been no sex and he immediately assumed that Summer had tricked this new face with big money into some sort of non-fucking deal. He slapped her across the face. That’s the last time he ever used his arms again.
After that night, he couldn’t beat anyone again because he was now a quadriplegic.
Alexis never forgot that night...
****
Terry Walsh and his Girlfriend Darlene were junkies with a problem. They’d had a kid, and of course what would two meth heads want with a meth addicted child?
So they did what any responsible person would do, they dumped the child off on an orphanage’s front step and peeled tires.
The poor child was taken to a hospital and put on treatment to flush his system. He survived, miraculously, but was rendered mentally slow by the drugs that had infected his system.
When the boy was eight, he was put into a foster home. It should have been the happiest day of his life, but this foster home ended up being a nightmare.
The lad was ridiculed by the family’s “real” kids. Because of his mental state they made him eat shit, they sodomized him and tortured him fiercely. The parents either didn’t know, or more likely, didn’t care. They knew he had brain damage from infancy and just assumed he was lying or hurting himself.
He cried constantly and became overweight quickly, finding his solace in food. The family eventually sent him back to the orphanage because he was, “A bad influence on our good kids”.
The boy wanted to go to a good family. He knew the difference between good and evil, right and wrong, but he found himself incapable of doing anything about his situation.
The years rolled by, and still the boy was stuck in the orphanage. He didn’t want to go live with another family like the last one, but he desperately wanted someone to look up to. A father, a mother, a brother or sister maybe, but they had to be ever so kind.
Finally, on the eve of his twelfth birthday, he happened to overhear voices in the family room of the house that he lived in with the other children. He normally paid no attention to adoption director talking to potential parents, because they almost always want much younger, happier kids.
However, these voices were saying that they wanted an older child, capable of functioning outside of diapers and feeding schedules.
The childs heart leapt. He ran at once to the dining room to try to sneak a peek at his potentially new parents.
They looked young. The woman was awfully pretty and had a fierce intensity in her eyes. The man looked huge and had a look of jovial mockery about him. He almost felt crushed. He knew enough from other potential parents to know that this couple was far too young to adopt anyone, let alone a twelve year old boy with severe mental problems.
As he was about to slink away he heard the director call to him. She must have seen him in the dining room and so she beckoned him to come over.
“Herbert Humphries Walsh, I want you to meet Tomas Luger and Alexis Malone.”
****
So you see, Eno, everyone has a story to tell. Most of the ones worth hearing about tend to be tales of sorrow.
You’re not so different from myself, or any member of my family.
The Rabble isn’t just a clique or a stable in the ring. They are my blood.
I lost my parents when I was five. I don’t know what happened to them, probably never will. They dropped me off at a daycare and I never saw them again. I became a ward of the state of New York and was my own entity on my eighteenth birthday.
The difference between us is I don’t base my life off of the sad shit that happened to me long ago.
Job, I respect you as a wrestler. You are the TWD Heavyweight Champion.
But as a human being, I can honestly say that you make me look like a saint. That ain’t easy pal, so congratulations.
When I go home at night, and I step away from the ring, I take off Tomas Luger and step into my normal guy outfit.
When I’m not in the ring, I’ve had my heart broken. I’ve felt grief, regret, anger, joy. I’m not always some jack ass trying to make a buck and cheating the system, along with everyone else.
The fans, the Lugernauts, they pay to see me act like a clown. I do my best and hope it’s enough. Whether I beat you or not this Saturday at The Devil’s Dance is a moot point to me, because at the end of the day the fans will still love me, champion or no. I’ll still have a family to go home to, even if we’re not the typical kind of American “white picket fence” family.
What do you have?
Win, lose or draw, Job, I’ve already beaten you.
You just don’t realize it yet.