CaptainWacky
I want to smell dark matter
Randy Pheasant made sure that the restroom was empty before going in. He just needed a little something to help him get through the next match. He had just turned forty, after all. He deserved a little boost, to keep up with the young ones! The guy he was wrestling, black kid, was eighteen years younger than him for Christ's sake. He didn't want to be embarrassed out there. Of course, he'd been giving himself little boosts before matches for many years now. He instinctively felt the cartilage between his nostrils. Degraded, but still there. Just. Some of the boys had noticed. Most of them knew he was on the blow anyway. It wouldn't show up on the tv cameras, he told himself. That was the important thing. He prepared himself a line of cocaine.
He took a look at himself in the mirror first. He flexed. Yeah, he still had it! Okay, his body wasn't quite as impressive as it once was, but then, since the new drug-testing policy began, nobody's was! He was lucky they weren't testing for cocaine...at the moment anyway. There had been threats. But the boss would protect him. They were old friends, they had been drinking buddies years ago. He'd been off the steroids for two months now. He was worried that, even though he was working out more than ever before, his body was definitely degrading. But he looked good enough for now. He had plenty of time. He'd worry about it later. He felt a flutter in his heart. That was normal. He'd been getting those for years. Nothing to worry about.
It was only after he'd finished his line that he remembered he'd taken coke the night before. It had become so routine, especially in the last two months, that he was forgetting. Still, it wouldn't hurt him. He could handle it. He saw the kid he was fighting tonight. They hadn't went over anything for the match. They'd wing it, Randy decided. Call it in the ring. It would be all right. He could have a good match in his sleep. He wished the kid luck as he made his way out. Then Pheasant's entrance music played and he made his way out to the ring himself, the fans jeering. He looked around the crowd for pretty girls, he really felt like getting laid tonight. He remembered the last time he'd been in this town. He'd invited a girl, Lisa might have been her name, back to his hotel room the next day. She'd come and they'd spent all day fucking. She'd ran away crying in the end, feeling guitly for cheating on her boyfriend. He laughed at the memory. Silly bitch.
The match went well for the first ten minutes or so. They, the opponent (Randy wished he could remember the kid's name) backed him into the corner. He hit a weak looking forearm smash across the chest. It may have LOOKED weak but it hurt like hell. Randy felt the pain spread out to his whole body. Punk kid! He caught the bastard with a stiff slap to the face. That would teach him. Another clubbing forearm. This one DID look good too, but strangely it didn't hurt as much as the first one. His opponent backed off. Randy tried to move out the corner...and there was that pain again. What the hell! He felt like he'd be electrocuted. He couldn't move his left arm. All he could do was clutch his chest with his right hand and sink down to the canvas. Ah, shit, he was having a heart attack. He'd always thought of them as being something that only happened to other people.
It wasn't the cocaine, he decided. No way. He could handle that. It was the steroids. Twenty years of using that crap had inflated his heart. But he was off them now. He'd get better. He'd return to the ring within a month, he decided, as he lay there, his opponent and referee looking desperate. And he could keep using cocaine, of course. It hadn't done him any harm. He'd be fine now he was off the steroids. He'd be...
It occured to Randy that the wrestling ring had disappeared. It occured to him that his opponent was gone and the referee. Who had they been anyway? He couldn't remember. What arena was he in? Again, he couldn't remember. What had he actually been doing? Oh yes, he'd been learning to ride a bike. That's what it was. He could see his dad smiling proudly as he rode towards him. He could do it on his own! What was it he was doing again?
They had a ten bell salute for Randy Pheasant on the next evening's television show. Several of his fellow wrestlers talked about him, what a nice guy he'd been, how his death was a tragedy, how his heart was just too big, how he was with God now. Few believed what they were saying. The truth was that most of his co-workers thought that Randy Pheasant had been an asshole he only had a job because he was old friends with the boss. A fun guy to drink with at time, but nothing more. His opponent on the night Pheasant died was perhaps the most upset but his death, but cheered up considerably when he was told that the death had nothing to do with the stiff forearm smash he gave Pheasant in the corner.
The boss was upset. Not because of any great affection for Pheasant, he'd outgrown Pheasant's friendship a long time ago. More because of the unwanted press attention his death would bring. Right after the steroid testing policy had been announced, another wrestler had dropped dead of a heart attack and in the ring this time! Not good. Still, at least they'd found high quantities of cocaine in his system in the post mortem. He could blame Pheasant's death on that. Recreatational drug use, nothing to do with the wrestling business! He smiled.
He took a look at himself in the mirror first. He flexed. Yeah, he still had it! Okay, his body wasn't quite as impressive as it once was, but then, since the new drug-testing policy began, nobody's was! He was lucky they weren't testing for cocaine...at the moment anyway. There had been threats. But the boss would protect him. They were old friends, they had been drinking buddies years ago. He'd been off the steroids for two months now. He was worried that, even though he was working out more than ever before, his body was definitely degrading. But he looked good enough for now. He had plenty of time. He'd worry about it later. He felt a flutter in his heart. That was normal. He'd been getting those for years. Nothing to worry about.
It was only after he'd finished his line that he remembered he'd taken coke the night before. It had become so routine, especially in the last two months, that he was forgetting. Still, it wouldn't hurt him. He could handle it. He saw the kid he was fighting tonight. They hadn't went over anything for the match. They'd wing it, Randy decided. Call it in the ring. It would be all right. He could have a good match in his sleep. He wished the kid luck as he made his way out. Then Pheasant's entrance music played and he made his way out to the ring himself, the fans jeering. He looked around the crowd for pretty girls, he really felt like getting laid tonight. He remembered the last time he'd been in this town. He'd invited a girl, Lisa might have been her name, back to his hotel room the next day. She'd come and they'd spent all day fucking. She'd ran away crying in the end, feeling guitly for cheating on her boyfriend. He laughed at the memory. Silly bitch.
The match went well for the first ten minutes or so. They, the opponent (Randy wished he could remember the kid's name) backed him into the corner. He hit a weak looking forearm smash across the chest. It may have LOOKED weak but it hurt like hell. Randy felt the pain spread out to his whole body. Punk kid! He caught the bastard with a stiff slap to the face. That would teach him. Another clubbing forearm. This one DID look good too, but strangely it didn't hurt as much as the first one. His opponent backed off. Randy tried to move out the corner...and there was that pain again. What the hell! He felt like he'd be electrocuted. He couldn't move his left arm. All he could do was clutch his chest with his right hand and sink down to the canvas. Ah, shit, he was having a heart attack. He'd always thought of them as being something that only happened to other people.
It wasn't the cocaine, he decided. No way. He could handle that. It was the steroids. Twenty years of using that crap had inflated his heart. But he was off them now. He'd get better. He'd return to the ring within a month, he decided, as he lay there, his opponent and referee looking desperate. And he could keep using cocaine, of course. It hadn't done him any harm. He'd be fine now he was off the steroids. He'd be...
It occured to Randy that the wrestling ring had disappeared. It occured to him that his opponent was gone and the referee. Who had they been anyway? He couldn't remember. What arena was he in? Again, he couldn't remember. What had he actually been doing? Oh yes, he'd been learning to ride a bike. That's what it was. He could see his dad smiling proudly as he rode towards him. He could do it on his own! What was it he was doing again?
They had a ten bell salute for Randy Pheasant on the next evening's television show. Several of his fellow wrestlers talked about him, what a nice guy he'd been, how his death was a tragedy, how his heart was just too big, how he was with God now. Few believed what they were saying. The truth was that most of his co-workers thought that Randy Pheasant had been an asshole he only had a job because he was old friends with the boss. A fun guy to drink with at time, but nothing more. His opponent on the night Pheasant died was perhaps the most upset but his death, but cheered up considerably when he was told that the death had nothing to do with the stiff forearm smash he gave Pheasant in the corner.
The boss was upset. Not because of any great affection for Pheasant, he'd outgrown Pheasant's friendship a long time ago. More because of the unwanted press attention his death would bring. Right after the steroid testing policy had been announced, another wrestler had dropped dead of a heart attack and in the ring this time! Not good. Still, at least they'd found high quantities of cocaine in his system in the post mortem. He could blame Pheasant's death on that. Recreatational drug use, nothing to do with the wrestling business! He smiled.
