Post by obsessed on Dec 17, 2009 2:19:36 GMT -5
"Tickets..." the ushers repeated over and over in monotonous similarity. One by one, the fans ushered by, getting the scanned, wandering about, seeking their seats to the circus. Shuffling through the concessions, the apparel stops, listening to the shouts of "Programs!" just barely audible over the irrelevant mumbles of the crowds as they made their way in.
May 18th seemed so far away, yet May 18th was yesterday a blink of an eye ago. Today is just about seven months later. Seven months since he last stepped through the ropes. Hell, seven months since he'd even stepped foot in a fucking arena. And four years since he's done it for anything based out of New York. That city, a long example of disdain in the blackest portion of his heart, the one place that opened him up to not only the bad, the ugly... but even the good in this industry. That, however, killed it even worse.
Hell freezes over, sometimes the expression goes. Things happen that each and every person "in the know" says will never, ever happen. Yet, the "best there ever was" can always be bought back by the man who's face he spat in, by the place responsible for embarassing him in his own homeland. Time does heal wounds. Slowly, for some. It's a scar that he feels over time and time again, an ominous reminder. "GETCHER BEER HERE!"
"How much," he replies, a break in character for him. Lost in his own flood of returning memories and emotions, he forgot about his "Ignore everybody" routine. "Eight Dollars..." he replied, reaching into his cooler for a 16 ouncer...
"Get fucked." His response didn't matter. He walked through the curtain, descending the stairs toward the lower bowl. The ring in front of him stood, and the show had yet to begin.
May 18th seemed so far away, yet May 18th was yesterday a blink of an eye ago. Today is just about seven months later. Seven months since he last stepped through the ropes. Hell, seven months since he'd even stepped foot in a fucking arena. And four years since he's done it for anything based out of New York. That city, a long example of disdain in the blackest portion of his heart, the one place that opened him up to not only the bad, the ugly... but even the good in this industry. That, however, killed it even worse.
Hell freezes over, sometimes the expression goes. Things happen that each and every person "in the know" says will never, ever happen. Yet, the "best there ever was" can always be bought back by the man who's face he spat in, by the place responsible for embarassing him in his own homeland. Time does heal wounds. Slowly, for some. It's a scar that he feels over time and time again, an ominous reminder. "GETCHER BEER HERE!"
"How much," he replies, a break in character for him. Lost in his own flood of returning memories and emotions, he forgot about his "Ignore everybody" routine. "Eight Dollars..." he replied, reaching into his cooler for a 16 ouncer...
"Get fucked." His response didn't matter. He walked through the curtain, descending the stairs toward the lower bowl. The ring in front of him stood, and the show had yet to begin.