Line Up. Swan your first #3

Everyone is always insisting that I follow my heart. I hear it from every direction I turn, and no one person can say it enough. I heard it all the time growing up from adults, and now I hear it from people who believe they know better than me. But you know what? I can't hear my heart. I'm pretty sure I don't even hear a beat sometimes.

I don't think I have a heart.

What, than, am I supposed to follow if I don't have this supposed guiding light? I've thought up until now that I should listen to common sense. I should listen to probabilities, odds, and evolutionary instincts, right?

Something is missing. If I don't have a heart, the thing I'm supposed to follow and obey, then I'm supposed to listen to logic? Even if logic is, well, the logical thing to follow, what if I simply don't want to? Most of the time I find myself saying "fuck logic" before lighting up another blunt. Logic doesn't have a voice like other people's heart does. It doesn't have any pull or sway over me. It's just there to be followed if I wish.

Logic told me to go back to my apartment within two hours of leaving it, but I didn't. Now, nearly four months later, I'm living in my friend's "groove pad", as he insists on calling it, and I spend most of my days smoking, drinking and inhaling, ingesting and consuming a vast variety of hallucinogens.

My friend, who I was living with, was a small time drug dealer who spent all of his money on drugs and his nice apartment. He was naturally well liked, peaceful and took you in as family once he got to know you. He was also intimidating if he didn't like you.

His name was Smokey Wishram, and he looked like Jules Winnfield from Pulp Fiction. He had the hair, he had the attitude and he had the face. He also loved the women, and the women loved him back. He'd often have four of five women living with him in his pad at a time, along with several other non-sexual friends. This was me, although I tend to think he took advantage of me in my stupors. He had the libido of a teenage boy.

I was laying down on a mattress that I slept on, with no frame or sheets, and staring at the ceiling, absorbing the peace of this place. Sure, I was escaping from reality, but I didn't care. There was a calm equilibrium to this place and to myself in these times. A half-smoked blunt was laying on the table next to me, along with a bowl of white rice and some soy sauce. I was happy.

Smokey walked in with a woman under his arm, wearing a crumpled suit and a bad shave. He smirked as he saw me tripped out on the bed.

"Hey buddy. Me and a couple ladies were thinking of hitting up some parties tonight," Smokey said, looking down at the girl as she tried to drag him away back to his room. "You need a women, bro. Come out with us."

"Nah, I think I'm good here man. The ship is sailing, and I'm on it. The wind is fucking right here man. It's fucking right there," I say dreamily, reaching out with my hand into thin air. "Besides, I doubt I'd even be able to find a woman in the state I am."

"Holy shit. This is not the Rico I know. Get yo' ass up, boy," Smokey said forcefully, immediately concerned for me.

"Nah man, there's no way I could land," I said, my equilibrium beginning to tilt.

"The parties we're going to, you'll be exactly what the girls are looking for," Smokey smirked knowingly.

I sat up.

A few hours later I was on the outskirts of Chicago, in what was essentially a massive pit of drugs and druggies. An old abandoned warehouse had been dug out, nearly ten feet, and in this pit was one of the nicest drug havens I had ever seen. Someone big was financing the place. It has sofas everywhere with crashed "free spirits" laying on them, looking up at the factory's ceiling, miles away.

I felt comfortable, shockingly. I had never much enjoyed parties or drug hangouts, but this once was free. The girls were ripe, there was no booze, and plenty of tripper's drugs. I was sitting on the couch, talking to a 20-something knockout who had brunette hair, deep brown eyes and an ass that won't quit.

Smokey was right. As soon as I had sat down, they were onto me. I guess I've found what a girl truly wants. An unwashed, half clothed, tattered drug addict with no money, no house and no prospects. Bang.

"So where do you live, baby," she said, her smile anything but coy.

"Don't call me baby, princess. And I live downtown. . . like a motherfucker," I barked. I've never been a charmer, but her smile didn't fucking fade.

"Ooh, downtown. Are you like a business man or something?" she asked playfully. I was not a business man and she knew it.

"Yeah, I'm a fucking business man, honey. I'm Bill Gates' CEO for the Midwest. Let me take you back to my high rise so we can fuck," I said, deadpan. Somehow this girl knew me. She smirked. . . not put off.

"Okay, I'd be up for that. Except, let's not go to your make-believe high rise. Let's go to Smokey's, I heard it's wonderful there," she said, keeping a straight face almost as well as me. I actually fucking smirked. I'm disgusted with myself, but I'm not letting her slip away. I made my move.

"His place sucks, let's go to my house," I said, keeping in mind I had no house to speak of.

"Alright, where is that then?" she asked.

"In Smokey's house." I said, never breaking stride.

She finally laughed.

"So what's your name?" she asked, taking my hand as I led her away from the party.

"You can call me the Devil, that's what you'll be screaming tonight anyway," I said, not even looking back at her.

"Alright, well, I'm Auxi."

Word.
—

If I'm World Champion, this company is mine. Salvation has been fooled – it is no more – but I can do what they were trying to do all by myself. I can win the World Champion, show the world I'm the absolute best there is, and then I can pull the rug out from everyone. NLWF will be mine. Not using someone’s over complicated, bloated schemes, but by simply proving to everyone that I'm the best out there.

But alas, there is one faggot who stands in my way. One cock smoker named Swan Lee. The Asian Fairy. Swan do you understand why you never been in a postion to win anything meaningful here in the NLWF? Its because you've never gotten over the edge, you've never wowed management or the fans, and you've never impressed any of your coworkers. You got lucky this one time, and I allowed it. If I could feel, I think I'd feel embarrassed, Swan. Not, I'm not embarrassed that I’m facing you. I'm embarrassed that after Carmine’s worry about you becoming a flake seems to be fact. Everyone swore to him that you were here to work, and thus far you’ve done the total oppsite.

Luckily I don't give a fuck about this company's well-being or anybody in it, so this week's beating is going to be for my own benefit. By the time I'm finished with you, I'm sure your loss count will be doubled.

Your entire career has consisted of kissing up to management to keep your job, and then disappointing them with your lack of in ring skill. Right now, now you're looking at a revolution Swan. Even with Direct Hit sliding into the abess, I'm still wondering down my path, leaving a trail of destruction, blood, terror and bodies behind me. Waiting for my opportunity to bite... to suck the blood from this company, or what's left of it.

You aren't only not good enough to become champion, or to ever make an impact in this company. You are the worst wrestler here in NLWF. You got no skilss, your just a gimmick superstar, hell you’re the modern day Disco Inferno.

You are awful Swan, and you aren't getting any better.

This week I will beat THE FUCK out of Swan Lee until he begs and pleads for just an ounce of mercy, which I won't give to him. Sometime in the near future, EVERYONE will pay the price of making me the laughing stock of NLWF

Line up…

Swan, you're first.