Post by cureforthesickness on Dec 7, 2006 15:41:33 GMT -5
My life, the open book.
A sterile hospital ward. White walls and individual containers for each and every item line the walls. In the center of the room sits a large metal table. The table’s thick metal legs sit on the tile floor without give. The table top is covered by a thick plastic sheet with a paper sheet over it. Above this lays an unidentifiable man. He is skinny and rather short, his figure showing his age can not be over sixteen. His head lays on a stiff hospital pillow and he is leaking blood everywhere as if a faucet was turned on. Several doctors in lab coats stand around him, feverishly trying to close the wound that leaks on his head. A slender blonde woman in an attire exactly the same as the others in the room enters.
Woman doctor: What’s wrong with him?
Doctor #1: Several thick lacerations on the head and neck area and a mild concussion. His mother who brought him into the ER said that these injuries were sustained attempting a wrestling move he seen on television in his backyard.
Doctor #2: When will these kids learn what they see these pop culture icons shouldn’t be imitated, especially something as dangerous as professional wrestling.. Is this glass I am finding in his head??
Doctor #1: He was apparently reinacting some violent wrestling, involving light bulbs and barbed wire.
Woman doctor (bluntly): What kind of retards do this?
Doctor #3: He’s also under the influence of several pain pills, including Vicoden…
Woman doctor: Probably something else inspired by this garbage wrestling..
Far back in the room on a wall is a thick glass panel. This thick glass panel leads to a waiting room where family and friends can wait as the patient is worked on, as well as see what is going on in the emergency room. As a rare occasion, the window is not crowded by grieving family, but instead just one body. The man cannot be seen beneath a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up and a bandana over his forehead. This leaves the man in a cloak of darkness as he begins to speak to no one apparent.
Since when did being violent make me a pop culture icon? By breaking my body in the process of destroying others, I become some sort of celebrity. People can sit in their homes, nice and warm, and just Google my name and find out everything about me. They can find out the hospital I was born in, my mother’s maiden name, and that I ate a grilled cheese sandwich and chicken noodle soup for lunch. While they sit and read this information and entertain themselves with my personal life, I am sitting in some dirty broken down diner eating this chicken noodle soup and grilled cheese sandwich. I eat this sandwich in this sh*tty diner because I cannot afford to eat better. I cannot afford to eat better food and I cannot afford to be at home with my baby girl. My pride and joy sits at home with her mother while I am out destroying my body in an effort to make a living doing what I once loved. But thanks to the people that take great pride in knowing every bit and piece about my life, I cannot enjoy this profession any more.
The hooded man turns for a moment, looking back into the waiting room as the mother of the boy in the operation room works on a cross word in a comforable looking chair. She scribbles in the cheap grocery store entertainment book with little worry. The man turns back around, but not before we can get a glimpse of his face, revealing him as who we thought he was, “The King of Gore” Obo.
God forbid after wrestling for twenty five minutes and being dropped on my head off a steel cage I smoke something to calm my nerves and ease the pain. It’s the worst thing ever if I drink some alcohol before I go to the ring to dim my senses, so the ever praised stiff kicks, when someone kicks me just as hard as they can in the face to entertain these barbarian fans we have, don’t hurt as much. And god forbid after I go to the doctor and find out I have three compressed vertebrae in my neck that I actually TAKE THE DAMN PAIN PILLS HE TELLS ME TO TAKE! Because this is a sin and this is against the beliefs of these kids who sit in their parents basements and research everything about us and then criticize as if they could do what we do better.
Obo shakes his head for a moment, looking into the operating room as the doctors remove the last bits of glass and begin sewing the child up. Obo walks away with a disgusted look on his face, quickly turning away and down a corridor.
They try to do better. They try to do what I do, and this is how they end up. This is what becomes of anyone who tries to become I. I am not a common man, but an immortal. I am not one who walks, but I am the one. I am the savior. I am the Anti-Christ.. I am Your New Messiah…
A sterile hospital ward. White walls and individual containers for each and every item line the walls. In the center of the room sits a large metal table. The table’s thick metal legs sit on the tile floor without give. The table top is covered by a thick plastic sheet with a paper sheet over it. Above this lays an unidentifiable man. He is skinny and rather short, his figure showing his age can not be over sixteen. His head lays on a stiff hospital pillow and he is leaking blood everywhere as if a faucet was turned on. Several doctors in lab coats stand around him, feverishly trying to close the wound that leaks on his head. A slender blonde woman in an attire exactly the same as the others in the room enters.
Woman doctor: What’s wrong with him?
Doctor #1: Several thick lacerations on the head and neck area and a mild concussion. His mother who brought him into the ER said that these injuries were sustained attempting a wrestling move he seen on television in his backyard.
Doctor #2: When will these kids learn what they see these pop culture icons shouldn’t be imitated, especially something as dangerous as professional wrestling.. Is this glass I am finding in his head??
Doctor #1: He was apparently reinacting some violent wrestling, involving light bulbs and barbed wire.
Woman doctor (bluntly): What kind of retards do this?
Doctor #3: He’s also under the influence of several pain pills, including Vicoden…
Woman doctor: Probably something else inspired by this garbage wrestling..
Far back in the room on a wall is a thick glass panel. This thick glass panel leads to a waiting room where family and friends can wait as the patient is worked on, as well as see what is going on in the emergency room. As a rare occasion, the window is not crowded by grieving family, but instead just one body. The man cannot be seen beneath a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up and a bandana over his forehead. This leaves the man in a cloak of darkness as he begins to speak to no one apparent.
Since when did being violent make me a pop culture icon? By breaking my body in the process of destroying others, I become some sort of celebrity. People can sit in their homes, nice and warm, and just Google my name and find out everything about me. They can find out the hospital I was born in, my mother’s maiden name, and that I ate a grilled cheese sandwich and chicken noodle soup for lunch. While they sit and read this information and entertain themselves with my personal life, I am sitting in some dirty broken down diner eating this chicken noodle soup and grilled cheese sandwich. I eat this sandwich in this sh*tty diner because I cannot afford to eat better. I cannot afford to eat better food and I cannot afford to be at home with my baby girl. My pride and joy sits at home with her mother while I am out destroying my body in an effort to make a living doing what I once loved. But thanks to the people that take great pride in knowing every bit and piece about my life, I cannot enjoy this profession any more.
The hooded man turns for a moment, looking back into the waiting room as the mother of the boy in the operation room works on a cross word in a comforable looking chair. She scribbles in the cheap grocery store entertainment book with little worry. The man turns back around, but not before we can get a glimpse of his face, revealing him as who we thought he was, “The King of Gore” Obo.
God forbid after wrestling for twenty five minutes and being dropped on my head off a steel cage I smoke something to calm my nerves and ease the pain. It’s the worst thing ever if I drink some alcohol before I go to the ring to dim my senses, so the ever praised stiff kicks, when someone kicks me just as hard as they can in the face to entertain these barbarian fans we have, don’t hurt as much. And god forbid after I go to the doctor and find out I have three compressed vertebrae in my neck that I actually TAKE THE DAMN PAIN PILLS HE TELLS ME TO TAKE! Because this is a sin and this is against the beliefs of these kids who sit in their parents basements and research everything about us and then criticize as if they could do what we do better.
Obo shakes his head for a moment, looking into the operating room as the doctors remove the last bits of glass and begin sewing the child up. Obo walks away with a disgusted look on his face, quickly turning away and down a corridor.
They try to do better. They try to do what I do, and this is how they end up. This is what becomes of anyone who tries to become I. I am not a common man, but an immortal. I am not one who walks, but I am the one. I am the savior. I am the Anti-Christ.. I am Your New Messiah…
