Yellow Brick Road

Rachel was ignoring two callers… Casanova and another obsessed John.


Rachel was lying low. She was staying in a shady motel outside Vegas to keep from creeping too far into her savings. She wore sweat pants most of the day, ate pizza – fought depression and constant need to check if she was still within the window for an abortion.

She was on her way back home to Kansas to see her mom and dad – tell them she decided to be a mother. Flipping from whore to housewife – something her drunken father would often tell her she could never do.

Her mother wanted to escape as bad as Rachel did – not because her father was nothing less than an insufferable bastard. He didn’t raise a hand, didn’t curse at her much – just was indifferent to it all. Comfortable with the mediocre and maintaining it was such.

Rachel's favorite movie was the Wizard of Oz. Probably because of the reference of her hometown. She always wanted a twister to come and spin her up in its wind, drop her some place she could be relevant. I guess Vegas was close to Oz. Just the little pricks who populated the magical city were dicks and not dwarfs. She played Dorthy in high school – still fits into the costume today… the amount of cock she sucked in that old thing.

She wasn’t ashamed of the work she did, what she had to do and continues to do to survive. Truth be told, the only time she didn’t feel depressed was when she was cumming. A work out, sure that was nice – but saliva on two finger tips and a little friction and you can’t hear the world problems beyond your own moans.

Her phone buzzed again – not English this time – Billy, one of her richest clients. He never was good at hearing 'no.'

Rachel pulled the hotel bed sheets over her head. She wonders when the last time they were washed was


I smoke a cigarette walking along a brick road. Bash Daddy steadies the camera. He has a filter on to make everything black and white but what I am walking on – the brick pathway is a vibrant yellow. I puff on my cigarette slow. I couldn’t believe I missed winning the big one once more – the chance to shake the blues of losing the Warrior Rising Championship.

“You know the story right? You can see one of those little people hang themselves in the Wizard of Oz in the background. Showbiz, what you see on the surface looks so fucking beautiful. You see beautiful young actress splashing across color TV, skipping away from lions tigers and bears – extras with their cheeks caked with rosy red fucking make up. All the while – someone took their life. It’s not much different than wrestling – the bullshit river we send these fans down week after week with these promos hyping ourselves up and pissing down the throat of anyone we can look down on. The idea of ‘the show must goes on’ runs deep – companies near bankruptcy who will drag the body out of the ring and get the last could matches in before the fucking police are called – hell even notified. If you think anyone at the top of Project Honor gave a fuck if we were maimed or killed in that structure at Disputed Territory you are dead wrong. They let that shit roll like a Will Smith slap and virtue signal their way to ratings glory. It’s why I decided to go into business myself…”

I smirk, knocking the ash off my cigarette. I continue to walk along the pathway. It almost seems as if I am walking in a continuous loop.

“We’re all saying the same fucking shit. It’s the same tired formula over and over rearranged and regurgitated. Sure we shuffle the cards differently, but even I can’t believe the fans are dumb enough not to see we’re all playing with the same ol’ recycled deck. I’m not going to confuse getting wise with getting old.”

I remember how I preached out the decay of society. How we would pick at one another over the mundane. I said these morons who couldn’t get a whiff of cunt were going to load up on weapons – drown themselves in propaganda and start a whole different holy war.

“I made the template for people like you to get to where you have gotten Emmanuelle. I am tired of being humble about it. Ten years ago I was shifting the discussion away from those roided up idiots dying before fifty. I was laying out the yellow brick road for you to follow and so many since have done it to a tee – congratulations. But sadly for you my time isn't close to over. I’m not dying, you aren’t a gladiator. I’m not saying that you haven’t proven yourself at Project Honor – but truth be told I am still the spark in the industry that keep people like you going. I keep you walking that path to glory – not because you want the gold too – but because you don’t want to have to watch me take over the world through TV screen retired on some fucking beach side home. You said the look on my face when you won at Disputed Territory II was pretty much the highlight of your career. I'm still pushing people like you teetering on the fence of packing it in to keep on fucking going – but eventually I will put you out of your misery. If you go out of you way to put my name in your mouth I will gladly slap it right out.”

I take some small puffs off my cigarette blowing clouds toward the camera. Bash coffee gently shaking the cam.

“People like you are quick to take the glory when there are a bunch of other people involved in match – but you have never and will never beat me one on one. That’s why I am the one calling you out. You wanted to go out of you way to gloat on social media. Well you should know by now I do my best talking between the ropes. Once again I will make an example out of you. It’s just easy fucking money at this point.”

“You were able to save your friend Tara. I gave you something to fight for… I made you care… made you feel significant… gave you the confidence to walk into the PPV and win a grueling match. But those gimmick matches, you know as well as I do how luck factors in. This match between you and I at Proving Ground won’t have a pile of bodies between us. There is no computer screen to hide behind and gloat.”

“What I am offering you is yet another opportunity. How stupid will I look if I call you out and I can’t put my money where my mouth is. All those people who say I am past my prime will be proven right. I'll be stuck in limbo between an entry level championship and the main event perpetually. You don’t think that gets to me? You don’t think I watching Myojin like a fucking hawk? You don’t think I have my eye on the top championships. I may have given you an opportunity, but I am giving myself one as well. I am giving myself the chance to continue to put myself in discussion as one of the top draws of this brand – and just maybe I find a way to take that prize from you – sow doubt once again in the people this company have decided to hoist to the top of the card.”

“I have been talking about the Wizard of Oz, but if there is one thing about Casanova English you need to understand is as fuck up as all this looks – there is no smoke and fucking mirrors. But I can make you a promise Emmanuelle. I can offer up a small mercy – three tap tap taps is all it takes – not with with ruby red shoes – but with on the canvas through your ruby red blood. Three taps and boom, I let go, there is no place like home and there is no need to come back to my ring.”

I lean down and slap my hand hard against the yellow brick road, cigarette hanging from my mouth. I stand back up blowing smoke toward the camera once again and taking the cigarette between my fingers pointing it at the camera.

“I didn’t call you out because I thought this would be match of the year. I called you out to once again show management they have no idea how to use the talent on this roster – they have no idea what to do with a wild card like me. You know Emmanuelle how it works – any given Sunday right? It just take the right moment — just three fucking seconds – just a slip up, achoke hold and like that dreams are crushed.”

I walk in through a door from the alley way. It and old gym for armature wrestling. The lights flicker on and I walk into one of the circles in the center of a mat. Behind me the old saying ‘Fatigue makes cowards of us all,’ has the first word crossed out to say ‘Casanova’.

“See this is the stuff that gets the Olympic status, the legitimacy, the glory – hell you turn it to an octagon and those competitors get more respect then we do. For over a decade I have been trying to inject this sport with reality – pull the curtain aside. But truth be told none of these people could give a fuck, they all come to see one thing – blood and guts. They came to see violence. They came to get as close as possible without getting their hands dirty. They want to see broken arms, legs and necks – be the next viral Liveleak post.”


“Emmanuelle you have a natural ability for this garbage and truth be told I think that’s your curse. You are begging to be put out of your misery – tired of walking though the halls with the continuous pile of false prophets and heroes alike and the ones who pretend they don’t give a fuck in between.”

I walk back to where I came. I walk along the brick pathway speaking to the camera once again.

“I’m finding my way back to my roots slowly. People think because I have a company now of my own I am going to take my eye off the ball – but I need this more than ever. You think anyone is going to take me seriously if I can’t do this at a top level? And that’s where you come in Em. I think we’re close enough for nicknames at this point. I’ll make you care about this sport, I did it with Tara. I gave you the motivation you needed to win at Disputed Territory. If I didn’t push you the way I did you would have fucking jumped to your death by now. Here you are though – hanging on – dangling with your fingertips on the ledge of greatness. And here I am once again – the reality check you fucking need. I used to tell people I was the Modern Day Messiah – a God at this shit, then everyone started to try and make the claim so now I’m leaning into what I always have been – the toppler of false fucking idols – the one true prophet himself – the Icon Killer… and Emmanuelle it all begins and ends with you at Proving Ground.”

I drop my cigarette onto the yellow brick road and stomp on it. As I twist putting the cigarette out Bash shifts the filter to make everything around me black and white.

Rachel’s phone stopped buzzing for six hours straight.

That made her worry. She didn’t expect English to give up that easily to get hold of her now that she carried a piece of him in her womb.

She reheated the coffee she made earlier in the microwave – slipped it slowly – opened up Netflix to some lighthearted romcom. She would hit the road in the morning. Tell her mom about her pregnancy. Rachel knew her mother would be proud – probably be even more excited when she explained the father was raking in money in the wrestling industry.

A knock at the door sent a shiver down her spine. She wasn’t expecting anyone. This wasn’t a place diligent with it’s room service. It was probably a junkie. A thud on the door jolts Rachel.

She shuts the TV off.

Just listening. She can hear grunts coming from the hallway. Shoulder thrusts into the door.

“What the fuck,” Rachel whispered. She scurried into the closet and hiding in the corner.

The door comes off its hinges and dress shoes enter pressing into the old carpet. Rachel noticed how the carpet smelled of bleach when she checked in. Hiding secrets in its pure whiteness and she didn’t want to become the next stain the maid worked out with chemicals.

It wasn’t long before the client who has been trying to seek her out found her ripping open the closet door and pulling her out by her hair. Billy was always more rough than she liked – but he tipped so well.

“Stop, I’m pregnant…” Rachel choked out getting on her hands and knees.

“Is it mine,” Billy yelled, his pupils dilated. Rachel just looks to the ground. “It is fucking mine…”

“No,” she said.

Billy plants that pointed boot up into the guts of Rachel as hard as he can. She lets out a screech of pain rolling over onto her back and holding her stomach. It was just like what Casanova English allegedly had planned for Tara weeks ago.. I guess it's called karma.

“All the years, all the money, all the secrets I gave to you… all the fun fucking times and you think you can just run off,” Billy said stepping the sole of his boot into. “Useless fuck.”

Billy spits on Rachel. She pushes the mucus out of her face grunting in pain as Billy fixes the collar of his dress suit – picks up his cell and dials a number.

“Hey baby, I think I’ll be able to make it home for supper after all – help you with bath time with the boys.”