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View Full Version : Prologue - You Shall Not Make For Yourself An Idol...



RStrawsma
03-08-08, 05:42 PM
“You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.”
-Exodus 20:4

Sometime midday, Terry Anderson awoke on his living room couch to excruciating pain in his head. His blurred vision slowly came into focus as he made the agonizing effort to sit up, and looked around to take in his surroundings. The room was an absolute mess; what the hell was he doing last night? He couldn’t even remember buying the cheap bottle of Wild Irish Rose that was still gripped in his clammy hand.

Becoming aware of the concept of time, his eyes looked for the Bud Light digital clock on the wall, which read 2:38. SH*T! How long had he been out? What day was it, for that matter? His boss would’ve killed him for coming into work so late… but then Terry had to remind himself that he hadn’t held a job in a couple years.

With every joint popping in his body, Terry pushed himself to his feet to begin his day, carelessly trodding over the pizza boxes, burger wrappers, dirty laundry, and beer cans littered across his soiled living room carpet. A blinking red light on the phone caught his attention, and he passively pressed the playback button on his answering machine as he entered the rest room to take a much-needed piss.

YOU HAVE… SEVEN… NEW MESSAGES.

FIRST… MESSAGE.

“Yeah, uh, Terry, it’s Micky, your favorite bookie. Look, hate to disappoint you, but your horse came in last again. Now I know you’re my mother’s brother’s former son-in-law, but I can’t keep fronting you the money like this.

“Oh, and Mr. Marconi wants to see you for a ‘private party’ at Tony’s Restaurant. I’d advise you bring a splint and some painkillers.”

END OF MESSAGE.

“F*ck…” Terry muttered to himself as he flushed the toilet and turned to the mirror to look at his own shirtless image. It was truly a sight that made him wince, in seeing how much he had gone to waste after all the years of drug and alcohol abuse. Two decades ago he was in his prime… a high-paid professional wrestling talent who wowed the audiences and put the delusional dreamers on their backs where they belonged. Terry “The Idol” Anderson, they used to call him… master of the top-rope elbow drop. Those were the glory years…

Of course, after he blew his knee one night while headlining in London, things steadily went down hill. The chiseled six-pack that was the pride of his physique was the first thing to leave him, followed by his Hollywood-style tan and perfectly smooth face. His muscles began to weaken and sag, his strawberry blonde hair lost its luster and began to recede, and more and more he fit the form of an old man as the years went by.

He spent those years earning peanuts by working behind the scenes, sometimes as a booker or manager. He found TV time again when he took up a job as a color commentator for a short-lived extreme federation at the turn of the century… and had what could have been a second chance at having an illustrious wrestling career when he became the manager and trainer to a promising potential up-and-comer in GXW… but even that eventually fell through.

NEXT MESSAGE…

“Terry, it’s Stephen Waltz! I got some good news today. I just got back from my physical therapist, and they’re saying it’s possible that I could one day go into the ring again! I’m really thrilled, man… I’ve been waiting for it for a long time.

“Of course, my hip still bothers me. They said it probably won’t ever stop hurting. Let me tell you, that’s the LAST time I ever drive a Corvette down the highway at 100 miles per hour while drunk of scotch and trying to be sexually pleasured by a Thai prostitute. I’ve been to all my AA sessions and reacquainted myself with the Lord Jesus Christ! I’m telling you, things are really going to turn around once I get rid of these crutches!

“Anyway, keep in touch, man! When I DO come back to the ring, I want only the best trainer and manager that I know to be standing in my corner! Bye-bye for now!”

END OF MESSAGE.

“F*ckin’ loser…” Terry said, cursing his former protégé as he grabbed a black Hard Rock Café Las Vegas t-shirt off the shower rod and pulled it over his torso as he walked back into the living room. He really needed something to drink.

NEXT MESSAGE…

“Terry, it’s Gail. Listen… I want you to stop calling this number. I don’t have money to give you right now, and I wouldn’t even if I did, considering all the times you haven’t f*cked me over. If anything, I should be asking YOU for the five grand you still owe for our daughter’s child support.

“Ashley got accepted into Ohio State, by the way… not that you’d care, you drunken, jobless piece of garbage.

“Call me again asking for help, and you’ll hear from my lawyer. Good-bye.”

END OF MESSAGE.

Continuing to mutter to himself, Terry fell back onto the couch and grabbed what was left of the Wild Irish Rose, taking a long swig which only caused the throbbing in his head to slightly fade.

NEXT MESSAGE…

“Wakey-wakey, motherf*cker!”

Terry’s eyes popped open.

“You know who this is? It’s ART, your landlord! You’re a week behind on rent again, you miserable piece of sh*t. I’m gonna be over there at quarter til three today, and you BETTER have my money, or I’m gonna bring a BAT to your f*ckin’ face!”

END OF MESSAGE.

“Oh, SH*T!” Terry exclaimed, and just as he glanced again at the clock on the wall, it flipped from 2:44 to 2:45. Almost immediately, there was a heavy, angry knock at the door. F*CK!

“You better be in there, you bastard!” threatened the muffled voice just outside the door, followed by another pounding knock. Anderson was already back on his feet, dropping the cheap wine on the floor and not noticing it spill into the carpet as he stumbled into his bedroom to pack.

NEXT MESSAGE…

“YO YO, TER-RAY!! It’s Mookie, and BOY-EE, I’ve got the best YAY in this neck of DEFF VALLEY!! Holla back at me, yo! LATA!”

END OF MESSAGE.

There was more pounding and cursing at the door as Terry frantically dressed himself, which consisted of putting on a pair of ugly gray sweatpants and sweat-soaked moccasin slippers. He threw whatever else he could find into a couple of empty paper bags and trekked back into the living room. The knocking was beginning to intensify as he threw his belongings on the couch and nervously lit his last Newport menthol as he tried to remember if he was forgetting anything.

NEXT MESSAGE…

“Terry… Jason Reeves here. Stop trying to call me up begging for money. I know you think I’m good for it now that I’m back in the ring and doing what I do best, but I’m saving it for something that matters. Anything I give you would only be blown on more booze, gambling, and coke… so go f*ck off.”

END OF MESSAGE.

Sh*t, THE FRIDGE! There was still half a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon and a bottle of Jim Beam in the fridge. Throwing his match over his shoulder, he darted into the kitchen, throwing the doors open and taking whatever booze he could find. He came back into the living room only to be washed with a sudden unnatural heat…

And his jaw dropped as his eyes came upon the blaze in the middle of his living room floor. What the F*CK…?!

Just then, the smoke alarm pierced the air. The pounding at the door only grew louder.

NEXT MESSAGE…

“Yes, hello, Mr. Anderson… this is Jess Chapel. I’m the owner of a multi-promotional wrestling organization known as TEAM. Perhaps you’ve heard of us.”

Terry was only statically aware the answering machine was still going as he stomped away at the small fire that had started from his match hitting the spill of wine on his carpet. Was wine flammable? Probably not, but whatever the f*ck they put in Wild Irish Rose is on par with turpentine.

“I’ve never had the opportunity to meet you, but I recently came across your resume. You see, I’m looking for a bit of help with our current Invitational Tournament. We have a lot of entrants this year spread out all across the globe, and I need a few extra reporters and journalists out in the field, doing interviews and helping promote, and what not.

“Basically, I’m offering you a job here at TEAM.”

Job? Now that’s was a word that even under the howling alarm and the banging at the door that made Terry pause for a moment and look to the answering machine. The fire, meanwhile, began to spread through the garbage and caught onto the sofa.

“From what I’ve researched about you, your current residence is over in Las Vegas… which happens to be where one of our entrants is residing. He’s… well, he’s a bit of a ‘special treatment’ kind of case. We need somebody to exclusively cover him and introduce this newcomer to our large fanbase.”

Anderson cracked open one of his last remaining PBRs to douse out the fire, but it had little effect. It was a hopeless battle, and he was too damn poor to afford a fire extinguisher. The pounding at the door now became loud, booming thuds, and he realized the landlord was in the process of breaking the door down. Given that he was over 6’5”, it wouldn’t take long for him to break through the lock and wrap the veteran wrestler and personality into a pretzel.

Thinking quickly, Terry took the last of his possessions and ran to the window, prying it open. The drop to the alley below as about twelve feet, and gave him some pause.

“If you’re interested, give me a call. Once again… Jess Chapel from TEAM. I’m hoping to hear back from you.”

END OF MESSAGE.

YOU HAVE… NO… NEW… MESSAGES.

“Oh, hell, I’ll take it!” Terry exclaimed as he threw himself through the window.