Post by The Legend on Dec 17, 2023 23:38:12 GMT -5
It’s snowing in Philadelphia. Small flakes, beautifully dancing through the streets of Rittenhouse. Couples lean a little harder into one another to stave off the howling wind.
Rob Williams lays in the king size bed twelve stories above it all in his suite at the Sofitel. Liquor bar bottles and little plastic bags litter the room. His eyes are droopy staring at a handful of pills.
“Is this… ah, whatever. I shouldn’t even have been born.”
Down the hatch the pills go. As is customary after a loss, Cooley spent the last week mending his wounds with vice. And now he lay in bed, eyelids like sandbags, drifting off. The Secret Santa Battle Royal is not even a blip on the radar.
____________________________________________________________________________
SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE
Everything is blurry. He knows he’s shaking, but he doesn’t know why. The Sofitel isn’t exactly the kind of place that has vibrating beds. Here comes the vomit. Something moves him onto his side.
Face to face with the alarm clock. It reads 1:11.
Rob peels his head off the sheets long enough to see a man standing bedside. There’s no way this is the man moving this giant with ease.
“Good evening Robbie.”
He didn’t order room service nor a wake up call. Sure, he probably just kept Rob from killing himself over the shame of losing to a “fae” who talks to fairy. But, still.
The man looks Italian based on his hair and his tracksuit. Dead ringer for Paulie Walnuts. There's a long silence.
“Can I help you?”
“Can you?” The man replies.
“Look, man, I don’t know what you want.”
“Look, man, you don’t know what you want.” The man parrots.
There’s a moment before violence that the trained can sense. Like a starter clicking on an old Ford just before we achieve ignition. Rob clenches his fists, eyes dropping to the man’s throat. Something familiar in the loaf’s eyes causes him to pause just before launching a heat seeker to this man’s windpipe.
“Listen, Robbie. I just saved your life. Relax.”
“What? No. I was just zooted.”
“Semantics. You got a chance to turn the ship around, buddy. I’m your guardian angel. Name’s Vito.”
“Vito?”
“Yeh, prick, laugh it up. Listen here, you succhiazzi, this is my chance. I cut a deal here, sort of like turnin’ witness for the big man. Bottom line, you’re comin’ with me”
No more ayahuasca for me Rob thinks to himself.
“Listen here, Luigi.”
Rob tries to lift himself up but his body betrays him. This has to be a bad trip. He’s seeing through his third eye. He peeks over to find himself face to face with Vito.
“Boo, figlio.”
“Am I dead?”
“You’re not far from it. But, no, Rob. Think of this as… adjudication. Now come on, we are on a hairline schedule.”
Vito lays a cold hand on Rob’s forehead. Enter a vortex. Time and space are fluid.
They’re in the crowd. Scotibank Arena, front row.
Rob looks around at the fans. They act like he’s just some regular fazool. One even gives him a nasty look like he’s some pervert staring.
“You were never born, remember.”
“Ah Christ, man, what did I take?”
“God only knows. Now watch the ring.”
Inside the ring the Secret Santa Battle Royal is winding down. Jayce Pierce has been dominating. No one can stop him. Rob doesn’t know why - maybe it’s this guy’s face. Maybe it’s that he’s a felon. While that would very much be a pot-and-kettle scenario, Rob is a complicated man, so we may never know.
Anyways, Rob is have an existential crisis as he sees this guy stand victorious.
“Ok, I’ve seen this. And it sucks, but hey, maybe he’s a good guy who’s just down on his luck and needs a break. Maybe this is his break! He can turn it all around and this can be his Cinderella story. I’m not really a-liking the sauce here Guido.”
Rob can’t figure out if the SNL reference is lost on Vito or if he just hates Rob. Both make sense.
“Oh, look, Rob. Look at that,” Vito points to a giant banner of Pan,”and check out what those people in the nosebleeds are wearing. Yep, Peter f’n Pan costumes.”
This one hits Rob a bit lower in the gut. Rob has had a long, illustrious career, so naturally he’s had losses. They always hurt. Some hurt so bad, though, that you wonder what you’re doing this for. It’s the reason Rob doesn’t play Call of Duty. It’s hard to be a sore loser in a single player campaign. They don’t leave you wanting to decorate your bedroom with some new fist sized holes.
But, Rob is an exceptional man. An exceptionally stubborn and prideful man.
“Well, that’s great. Pan probably feels really good about himself when he sees these things. He is… he is a talented individual.”
A bit of the vomit from before comes with that last part of the sentence.
“Alright, Rob. I didn’t want to do this. You just remember you made me.”
At first Rob feels like his chair was pulled out from under him. Alas, it wasn’t, he’s once again in the ether. Floating timeless and weightless through whatever black magic wormhole his guardian angel has put him through. And how unlucky is Rob to have a guardian angel that’s part of some Heaven Witsec Program? Anyways Rob lands in front of a house painfully. Vito is already there standing beside him.
“You get used to it.” Vito mutters without looking up at Rob.
“I don’t want to.”
“Look, Rob. There she is.”
He hears her voice first. He’d remember that voice even if he lost his hearing. Lost his mind. Maybe he has?
“Charlotte?”
A group of carolers stand in front of a McMansion. They’re belting a familiar tune, not sure which one. In the center stands Charlotte. She’s probably thirty pounds heavier. The “group of carolers” are really her husband and three kids. The reason Rob can’t peg the tune is it’s a hymnal.
“What… what is this?”
“You don’t exist, Rob. You’re a fantasma. She never met you all those years ago, you worthless prick. She married some guy from her hometown, found Jesus, and has a gaggle of kids. Teaches Sunday School and always signs up to bring a meal when someone is sick or died. Honestly, she’s a lot better off, you’re a f’n cancer.”
“No. No way, man.”
Rob charges towards Charlotte and her family. He’s naked save for his Sofitel robe, but it’s unfortunately untied. They of course hear a 6’5”, 275 lbs. giant lumbering towards them. Rob’s eyes meet Charlottes as she shrieks in horror.
“Charlotte, it’s me! It’s Rob, baby! Take me out of here.. Take me back please.”
Immediately Rob sees the confusion in her eyes.
Vito intervenes right before Charlotte’s husband gets righteous on Rob.
He wakes up, crying and covered in vomit, alone in his hotel room. Immediately he picks up the phone and hits the line for the concierge.
“Good evening Mr. Williams, how may we help you?”
“Book me a car to the airport and a ticket to Ontario.”
Rob hangs up the phone and pushes himself up. Like Napoleon returning from Elba, no St. Helena for him. He will be at Winter Wonderland, he will win the Battle Royal, he will avenge his loss to the fairy, and he will not let Charlotte find Jesus.
FIN
Rob Williams lays in the king size bed twelve stories above it all in his suite at the Sofitel. Liquor bar bottles and little plastic bags litter the room. His eyes are droopy staring at a handful of pills.
“Is this… ah, whatever. I shouldn’t even have been born.”
Down the hatch the pills go. As is customary after a loss, Cooley spent the last week mending his wounds with vice. And now he lay in bed, eyelids like sandbags, drifting off. The Secret Santa Battle Royal is not even a blip on the radar.
____________________________________________________________________________
SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE
Everything is blurry. He knows he’s shaking, but he doesn’t know why. The Sofitel isn’t exactly the kind of place that has vibrating beds. Here comes the vomit. Something moves him onto his side.
Face to face with the alarm clock. It reads 1:11.
Rob peels his head off the sheets long enough to see a man standing bedside. There’s no way this is the man moving this giant with ease.
“Good evening Robbie.”
He didn’t order room service nor a wake up call. Sure, he probably just kept Rob from killing himself over the shame of losing to a “fae” who talks to fairy. But, still.
The man looks Italian based on his hair and his tracksuit. Dead ringer for Paulie Walnuts. There's a long silence.
“Can I help you?”
“Can you?” The man replies.
“Look, man, I don’t know what you want.”
“Look, man, you don’t know what you want.” The man parrots.
There’s a moment before violence that the trained can sense. Like a starter clicking on an old Ford just before we achieve ignition. Rob clenches his fists, eyes dropping to the man’s throat. Something familiar in the loaf’s eyes causes him to pause just before launching a heat seeker to this man’s windpipe.
“Listen, Robbie. I just saved your life. Relax.”
“What? No. I was just zooted.”
“Semantics. You got a chance to turn the ship around, buddy. I’m your guardian angel. Name’s Vito.”
“Vito?”
“Yeh, prick, laugh it up. Listen here, you succhiazzi, this is my chance. I cut a deal here, sort of like turnin’ witness for the big man. Bottom line, you’re comin’ with me”
No more ayahuasca for me Rob thinks to himself.
“Listen here, Luigi.”
Rob tries to lift himself up but his body betrays him. This has to be a bad trip. He’s seeing through his third eye. He peeks over to find himself face to face with Vito.
“Boo, figlio.”
“Am I dead?”
“You’re not far from it. But, no, Rob. Think of this as… adjudication. Now come on, we are on a hairline schedule.”
Vito lays a cold hand on Rob’s forehead. Enter a vortex. Time and space are fluid.
They’re in the crowd. Scotibank Arena, front row.
Rob looks around at the fans. They act like he’s just some regular fazool. One even gives him a nasty look like he’s some pervert staring.
“You were never born, remember.”
“Ah Christ, man, what did I take?”
“God only knows. Now watch the ring.”
Inside the ring the Secret Santa Battle Royal is winding down. Jayce Pierce has been dominating. No one can stop him. Rob doesn’t know why - maybe it’s this guy’s face. Maybe it’s that he’s a felon. While that would very much be a pot-and-kettle scenario, Rob is a complicated man, so we may never know.
Anyways, Rob is have an existential crisis as he sees this guy stand victorious.
“Ok, I’ve seen this. And it sucks, but hey, maybe he’s a good guy who’s just down on his luck and needs a break. Maybe this is his break! He can turn it all around and this can be his Cinderella story. I’m not really a-liking the sauce here Guido.”
Rob can’t figure out if the SNL reference is lost on Vito or if he just hates Rob. Both make sense.
“Oh, look, Rob. Look at that,” Vito points to a giant banner of Pan,”and check out what those people in the nosebleeds are wearing. Yep, Peter f’n Pan costumes.”
This one hits Rob a bit lower in the gut. Rob has had a long, illustrious career, so naturally he’s had losses. They always hurt. Some hurt so bad, though, that you wonder what you’re doing this for. It’s the reason Rob doesn’t play Call of Duty. It’s hard to be a sore loser in a single player campaign. They don’t leave you wanting to decorate your bedroom with some new fist sized holes.
But, Rob is an exceptional man. An exceptionally stubborn and prideful man.
“Well, that’s great. Pan probably feels really good about himself when he sees these things. He is… he is a talented individual.”
A bit of the vomit from before comes with that last part of the sentence.
“Alright, Rob. I didn’t want to do this. You just remember you made me.”
At first Rob feels like his chair was pulled out from under him. Alas, it wasn’t, he’s once again in the ether. Floating timeless and weightless through whatever black magic wormhole his guardian angel has put him through. And how unlucky is Rob to have a guardian angel that’s part of some Heaven Witsec Program? Anyways Rob lands in front of a house painfully. Vito is already there standing beside him.
“You get used to it.” Vito mutters without looking up at Rob.
“I don’t want to.”
“Look, Rob. There she is.”
He hears her voice first. He’d remember that voice even if he lost his hearing. Lost his mind. Maybe he has?
“Charlotte?”
A group of carolers stand in front of a McMansion. They’re belting a familiar tune, not sure which one. In the center stands Charlotte. She’s probably thirty pounds heavier. The “group of carolers” are really her husband and three kids. The reason Rob can’t peg the tune is it’s a hymnal.
“What… what is this?”
“You don’t exist, Rob. You’re a fantasma. She never met you all those years ago, you worthless prick. She married some guy from her hometown, found Jesus, and has a gaggle of kids. Teaches Sunday School and always signs up to bring a meal when someone is sick or died. Honestly, she’s a lot better off, you’re a f’n cancer.”
“No. No way, man.”
Rob charges towards Charlotte and her family. He’s naked save for his Sofitel robe, but it’s unfortunately untied. They of course hear a 6’5”, 275 lbs. giant lumbering towards them. Rob’s eyes meet Charlottes as she shrieks in horror.
“Charlotte, it’s me! It’s Rob, baby! Take me out of here.. Take me back please.”
Immediately Rob sees the confusion in her eyes.
Vito intervenes right before Charlotte’s husband gets righteous on Rob.
He wakes up, crying and covered in vomit, alone in his hotel room. Immediately he picks up the phone and hits the line for the concierge.
“Good evening Mr. Williams, how may we help you?”
“Book me a car to the airport and a ticket to Ontario.”
Rob hangs up the phone and pushes himself up. Like Napoleon returning from Elba, no St. Helena for him. He will be at Winter Wonderland, he will win the Battle Royal, he will avenge his loss to the fairy, and he will not let Charlotte find Jesus.
FIN
