TO THE WINDOW, TO THE WALL. ‘TIL THE SWEAT DROP DOWN MY BALLS. ‘TIL ALL THESE BITCHES CRAWL. ‘TIL ALL SKEET-SKEET, MOTHERFUCKER. ‘TIL ALL SKEET-SKEET,

Late afternoon outside the Homewood Health Clinic, the good doctor leans against the cool brick wall and takes a closed-eyed, ‘thank-fucking-god’ puff of his cigarette. He shouldn’t be doing this. His own doctor warned him that given his weight, lack of sleep, and overall poor health, nicotine will kill him quickly.

And yet Dr. John Cusimano’s body demands it. Requires it. Needs it. Working a high stress job, with intense psychologically unstable patients, it’s the only time he feels a sense of calm.

Faint footsteps in the distance soon become more prominent. The death stick shrinks as the good doctor breathes in even harder, trying for every last fiber of tobacco to fill up his lungs.

He flings the now depleted cigarette to the ground, while those footsteps draw closer. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his last cigarette-

But doesn’t need to light it himself.

The footsteps in the distance have caught up.

Flick.

A tiny blue flame dances in front of his eyes and all the doctor has to do is lean forward to ignite the passion and wonder.

John inhales. The rush of nicotine once again engulfs his lungs into euphoria. Finally, he glances ahead, seeing the wavering, muscular build in front of him. This was the opposite of Cusimano’s frame. The guy is fit. Chiseled. Carved out of stone. And yet there is something so uneasy about him. Something impure. Is it his bushy, Eugene Levy-like eyebrows? Maybe it’s that sly, clever smirk on his face. Perhaps it’s the nose, sitting quietly, that thin, wiry nose. It looks like it could grow upon notice. Like Pinocchio.

“John, my friend,” the muscular man expresses, placing his pretty pink lighter back into his pocket. “It’s good to see you.”

Naa, there it is. The thing that makes John Cusimano anxious - the man’s voice. Rooted in confidence and cleverness, it’s still a tone that takes zero accountability for his actions, past, present and future. A free roaming, carefree perspective. Almost like your shadiest used car salesman.

One chalked full of…

Ideas.

“Yeah,” Cusimano mumbles under another breath of ‘fresh’ air, before hacking up a lung. “Always a pleasure, Reed.”

The young twentysomething-year-old wrestling promoter smiles. He merely holds out an open left hand, anticipating some type of exchange between them. Cusimano bites down on his cigarette, reaching underneath his lab coat. The good doctor hands over a manila folder, stuffed full of papers.

The exchange is made.

To Reed: the manila folder. To Cusimano: a fat stack of one-hundred dollar bills.

“Thank you, kind sir,” Young remarks. Dr. Cusimano minds his cigarette while Reed starts flipping through the patient files inside.

“You got some good ones in here for me, buddy?” Reed asks rather rhetorically, yet the doctor responds anyway. “We’ve got a new bipolar patient, [cough] three or four PTSDs, [cough] even someone who I recently diagnosed with Capgras Syndrome.” Young’s bushy eyebrows rise, he’s significantly intrigued. “Really? Don’t see that every day.”

“At the bottom of the stack,” the good doctor continues between puffs. “you’ll see our newest personality disorder clients, too.”

Young keeps nodding while he flips through at warp speed. There are at least twenty profiles in there. It will be a joy to comb over thoroughly when he gets home. “Good stuff, good stuff. Gonna start my new promotion any day now!”

Isn’t this, like, his fifth attempt in the past two years? Whatever, Cusimano isn’t going to push. He’s not even going to roll his eyes. The money in John’s back pocket emphasizes why he’s handing over confidential material. A means to a faster retirement.

It’s also, in many ways, a chance for his struggling patients to seek fame and fortune. A potential for a new life. Wrestling fans are different creatures. The more fucked you are as a talent, the better they like it.

…At least this was John Cusimano’s way of reasoning so he could sleep at night.

“Well, buddy,” Reed starts. “I’ve got three more mental health facilities to hit before I fly out of New Orleans. You know what I say, no stone unturned.”

The doctor wasn’t even listening, he was too focused on his cigarette and how much money was jammed into his back pocket.

The young wrestling promoter steers off to where he came from - the distance. The fog. The far, far away.

But not before he stops, looks back, and opens the folder again.

“Hey, Cusi, my boy!” Young pipes up. “Still no schizos, huh?”

The doctor shakes his head no. Until he remembers…

That’s not entirely true.

“Reed!” Cusimano calls for the attention of the self-proclaimed Ideas Man one final time. “We have a kid. [cough] A boy. He’s very young, though. Only six. [cough] Far too young for anything you’re trying to sell. While I haven’t diagnosed him yet, he certainly shows signs of schizophrenia.”

Music to the muscle man’s ears.

“Is that so?” Young ponders with a sinister grin. “Please, my good man, keep me in the loop. I always like me a good schizo!”

“Yessir.” Cusimano finishes his second cigarette and grips the wad of bills in his pocket. “We’ll keep in touch; I’ll let you know how the child progresses.”

“Regresses.” Young smirks under his breath. “Here’s hoping.”

The Ideas Man gives an ominous wink before walking into the heavy fog as his voice trails behind.

“I plan to be in business for years, Cusi.”

He vanishes into the mist.

“Who knows what tomorrow will bring…” GODDAMN (Part 3) A true love story An honest friendship Hoping she can sock it to me one more time Scrambled eggs never tasted so good.

Then again, neither did over-easy, sunny-side-up or fried. Hell, even potched was mouth salivating.

The man is on all fours, crawling around while frothing scrambled eggs at the mouth. He broke through the holding cell, completely obliterating the metal bars by his own free will. As the scene shows the aftermath - blood and yolk cover the walls from top to bottom and there are no more soldiers on guard. All five have been easily manhandled after the prisoner broke through the gates and proceeded to eat them.

Whole.

Now he slithers around the floor, sniffing one of the man’s rifles, remembering bullet after bullet that went into and out of his body.

Never left a permanent mark.

His eyes frantically scan his surroundings for a way out. There’s a door in the far left corner, the same door where his woman walked in and out of, telling the guards to keep their heads up, demanding they fire FULL BLOWN at the prisoner, for he would only weaken each time they did.

He didn’t. That’s how he broke through the cell and killed the bandits in under three minutes.

The prisoner snaps his body upright, like something out of The Ring, this Samara creature sees the exit door and knows he needs to walk through it.

One last look back at the massacre left behind.

The prisoner spits out a few remaining egg shells. The last bandit head he was munching on is swallowed down the hatch.

He shuffles towards the door. Towards her. He’s coming for her.

He is so fucking close!

He reaches the handle. At first, he assumes the door will be locked. At least jammed. It might take a wicked amount of strength to break through. He has the power, though. It’s building inside him. That’s how he survived the shootings. It’s how he broke through the cell. It’s how he slaughtered the five soldiers without breaking a sweat.

He reaches the handle but to his surprise, the door swings wide open. He walks in, no longer moving like an entity out of a horror movie. For he is in his regular skin and bones. The fresh faced kid, unable to grow even a one-o’clock shadow, looking as harmless as ever. The blood and egg whites dripping from his chin have been magically cleansed, as he stares ahead at the new unit.

Red flags line a desolate street. Broken cars, abandoned homes, a lineup of wreckage all leading into darkness. Sounds of sirens and screams in the distance, a plea for mercy. And through the darkened path, a tower of pure evil lies ahead. A singular flag waves at the top of this tower, where the man squints to see what’s written on it.

“COMMUNIST COUNTRY”.

No punches pulled, blunt and to the point.

He takes a step forward, realizing he’s no longer a prisoner. He watches his body morph from a cell uniform to one of an army cadet. He continues to move, step-by-step, except these motions are against his will. Held up at gun-point, he was in full control of his body. Now… he’s not sure.

It’s a march towards the castle. The high tower. And whatever lies inside.

He knows she has to be there, he reasons with himself.

As he works his way down the desolate street, he hears heckling. Then her face appears… but it’s not her face. It’s not the face he wants to see.

The face appears in the windows of broken cars. On cracked pieces of cement. On brick walls of former residential homes. Soon enough, her face is everywhere.

Laughing. Screaming.

Rose. Red Rose. The daughter of the Army. She is sick and tired of his face.

“Gutless.”

“Loser.”

“Simp.”

Relentless name calling, yet it doesn’t stop the cadet from moving. He rolls his fists together, knowing he handled the soldiers. At first, they shot with such marksmanship. Bullets blew off his face. But his entire body grew back. Healed. Pieced together and snapped into place.

Such anger coursing through Red Rose’s mouth. What is she trying to hide?

Soon, the cadet figures he’s going to find out.

Whether he likes it or not. — — — — — He’s a little more sure of himself since the last time they met. For example, Jonathan-Christopher hands the stack of money over with more emphasis and no hesitation. He’s not tentative, he knows this is what he has to do.

What he needs to do.

The other party snatches the money, rolling through the wad with his right index finger.

“I’m willing to do whatever it takes,” JCH promises, as he locks his eyes onto the man ahead. “I need your help and I mean it.”

The other man isn’t listening, he’s too preoccupied with the roll of hundreds in his hands. Thoughts rumble through his head, all sorts of wicked things, regarding how this money can be spent, or whom it can be spent on.

“My entire PRIME paycheck.” Hall clarifies. “I have nowhere else to go, I might as well take you up on the offer.”

The man mumbles before he pulls the stack of money to his nostrils and gives those fresh sheets a hard sniff. He nods. He nods hard. He likes it.

The money slides into his back pocket.

“Love the smell of money in the morning, makes my dick hard,” he says, finally looking over and realizing Jonathan-Christopher has been staring at him. JCH is trying to understand how money can cause an erection. Can it?

“I’m gonna need more,” the man asserts.

Hall agrees. “You can have every cent from here on, I swear.”

The former Universal Champion sticks out his right palm for a hand shake agreement, but Hall’s arm lingers in-between them for far too long. Out in open space. Left hanging.

“I need you to teach me, I’m done being me.” Jonathan-Christopher confesses. He’s just about to put his hand back down…

When the man reaches across and gives a hard, firm shake.

“Oh, I’ll fucking teach you alright.” The man grumbles.

JCH can already feel his trajectory change.

“Welcome to the Whoresmen, kid,” declares Rob Williams. — — — — — Can you hear me God Rose, it’s me, Jonathan-Christopher,

Humor me for a second. God knows I have for a couple of months.

Please, by all means, remind me why you are in the Red Army to begin with.

It’s not because Ivan Stanislav chose you. You are not his voice, nor the help he wants to deploy. The sole reason you are a part of the Red Army is because you lost to him in a wrestling match. However, this happens often enough for you, doesn’t it? Losses. Someone of your stature, with your lack of accolades, should be in no position to push others around.

You’re totally dispensable.

What are we honestly supposed to be scared of here, Rose?

You’ve got a pretty big fucking mouth for a woman with a 5-12 record.

I know what Christopher is scared of. Me, however. I’m a different beast entirely.

You don’t know who I am yet, nobody does. I’ve hidden, in plain sight, for a couple of years. Shackled at the chance to emerge as Jonathan-Christopher’s predominant persona. Yes, I’ve shown mild glimpses of my resurrection, here and there. Ultimately though, I’ve been held silent. Castrated, if you will, by the other half of me that doesn’t possess a pair of balls.

Luckily, I’ve got an extra set tucked away in my back pocket for an emergency like this.

I witness such hostility from you, a snot-nosed offspring, brought into this world by another talentless hack that couldn’t even beat Lindsay Troy during her ‘retirement years’.

Did you deliberately put your daddy out of his misery, too?

No, you are incapable of performing real, physical harm. While you didn’t kill your father directly, if I was your daddy, I’d have wished for death, too.

You are winless in 2025. Ranked dead last in PRIME.

And they call me the simp.

From first to last, this roster owns you. Yet there you are, acting with such sass and vigor. Perhaps we should go through a role reversal when Toronto comes calling, ya think? You’ve won nothing in PRIME and half of me is a former Almasy and Universal Champion.

Imagine what I’ll do after I am properly released.

You better pray to god, like I once did, that I don’t show my true face during our upcoming contest. Rose, you should’ve let me talk to Ivan. Now you’re on the verge of becoming the second woman I kill. Only this time, the police can’t pin a drug overdose as the reason.

They will announce my name as Jonathan-Christopher, but make no mistake, you will only feel the wrath from the first part of my alias.

I wish I could call it a humbling but something tells me you’re too dense to grasp the message. You will always be angry. You will never grow to survive.

Regardless, I will leave you laying in the middle of the ring. And I’ll have my real meeting with Ivan Stanislav.

From Dusk to Dawn, Dawn to your new Daddy,

Jonathan-Christopher Hall. — — — — — “Attaboy,” Jonathan claps the real Jonathan-Christopher Hall into their Las Vegas bedroom. Jonathan is seated on the usual office chair, with that trademark cigar sticking to the bottom right side of his lip as he talks. “You’re traveling in a positive direction. It’s something I’ve wanted to see for a long time.”

JCH completely moves into the room. He sees Christopher from the corner of his eyes sulking on the closet floor. It’s almost as if Hall doesn’t even want to acknowledge the guy. JCH has chosen the voice he’s going to follow and it isn’t the man in the closet.

And yet, for a moment anyway, the real Jonathan-Christopher has his head down, moping about before collapsing onto the mattress.

“What’s the matter, champ?” Jonathan barks sarcastically from his chair. “You aren’t having second thoughts now, are you?”

“I hope so!” Christopher whimpers.

“No,” JCH begins, ensuring Christopher can whine no more. “It’s just becoming real.”

“It better be,” Jonathan reinforces, clapping his hands for JCH’s most recent choices. “Giving up your paychecks to join The Whoresmen is steep but it’s a step in the right direction. Those men -and that one woman-, they’re going to set you straight, kid. No more pussyfooting!”

Hall ponders Jonathan’s confident statement as Christopher keeps weeping from the closet. It’s obvious this is not what Christopher wanted. He’s been saying they need to grovel at Vickie’s feet. To accept responsibility for pushing her away and most importantly, for outing their Amazing Life Partner on live television.

Adultery should’ve been kept in-house. Furthermore, it was their fault, you know. If Jonathan-Christopher had taken more of a lead, they wouldn’t have forced her into the arms of Cancer Jiles.

“Stop it, Chris! Stop it NOW!” JCH shouts as he lays on the bed with his eyes closed. While Christopher didn’t explicitly say anything, Hall knows the thought process he was falling into.

“You tell him!” Jonathan cheerleads from the office chair.

“This is why I’ve chosen the Whoresmen and Rob Williams,” Jonathan-Christopher remarks. “If I’m supposed to ‘step up’ and be ‘stronger’, how am I going to do that listening to you, Christopher?”

Christopher cries louder.

“No, I am ASKING you, this is not rhetorical! Tell me what I’m supposed to do and how things get better if I follow your lead…” The real JCH sits up, opens his eyes and looks in the closet.

“He has no reply,” Jonathan adds from the other side of the room. “Guy is a straight up dipshit.”

The real Hall collapses onto the bed again, closing his eyes and throwing his arms into the air.

“You’re on the hook for this, Jon.” Hall states in Jonathan’s direction. “It has to work.”

“It will,” Jonathan confidently reminds. “You’re already seeing results after I started appearing. Have you lost since?”

“Rose is going to pay. I’ll crack her skull open and show no remorse. Then I’ll make my official announcement into the Whoresmen…”

Hall runs through the hypothetical, positive outcomes.

“I’ll show them all. Sick and tired of being the pushover. Ivan Stanislav will regret the day he chose a wrestler with such a poor record over me!”

“That’s the spirit!” Jonathan takes the longest drag of his cigar to celebrate.

Christopher doesn’t say shit.

“It’s finally going to be the new JCH. The person I was always m-ea-nt to- be–”

Jonathan-Christopher hears a creaking noise in front of him.

But how is this possible? Because Christopher’s in the closet to his right and Jonathan’s on the office chair to his left.

JCH slowly sits up and opens his eyes. He can already see from the corners of his vision that his two subconscious egos have vanished.

There is another person in the room, standing directly in front of their bedroom doorway. She barely holds two bags of luggage, one in each hand. Her blonde hair fumbles down her face.

How long has she been there for? More importantly, what is she doing here?

“Cancy and I…” she begins rather slowly. “We broke up.”

She releases both bags of luggage from her clutches. They fall to the ground and tip over. Her pretty pink onesie and oversized Crocs glisten through the door frame. Her eyes have a sense of hope and wonder dancing within her pupils, leaving Jonathan-Christopher speechless.

That feeling… whatever was starting to rumble through his body over the last couple of months… it evaporates???

He looks at her, she looks at him.

“So what do you say, darling.”

He hasn’t moved an inch.

“We give love one more shot.”

Hall REALLY needs Jonathan right about now.

She’s moving in closer. With purpose. Intent.

Instead, JCH sees Christopher resurfacing in the closet!

“I love you, baby.”

No Jonathan. Only Christopher.

Wrong guy. Wrong ego. Wrong choice.

“Let’s never leave each other again.”

Her hand is on his shoulder.

Help.

HELP.

HELP!!!!!!!!!!!