Chuck says, "Fucking Colt. Losing to that punk ass little
bitch. Shit, it's up to you, kid. I mean it, Jake. You've gotta beat the old
man to protect our fucking honor."
I roll my eyes, "Right, Chuck. You really mean to protect
your ass, don't you? Your mouth wrote a check and now I gotta cash it."
"Okay, yeah, yeah, yeah. I mean my ass. Kid, I don't
wanna get fucked tonight. And I sure as hell don't wanna give up my belt to
those NWL assholes. Damn it. I figured Colt was a sure thing against that
beanpole. I never would've made this muthafucking bet if I thought he was gonna
lose." Chuck slams a fist into one of the lockers, seriously denting it.
I respond sarcastically, "Gee, thanks." The
implication that Chuck had no faith I could win just hangs there for a moment
before Chuck realizes what he’s said.
Chuck starts to apologize, but I wave him off. I'd be
insulted, but the fact is, Chuck is kind of right. Dick probably even chose me
as his opponent because he thought I’d be easier than Colt. While I'm
definitely the underdog here, I don't need to hear it just minutes before my
match. I need to hear suggestions on how I avoid 1984 starting off in a really
crappy way. I finish changing as Chuck paces, circling the entire locker room.
I wish Colt was here to calm him down, but the last time I saw Colt, he was
hogtied buck ass naked in the ring, fresh after being fucked by Justin. We
should've untied him, but I had this match to get ready for. I assumed Chuck
would do it while I got ready. Instead, Chuck came back here with me, leaving
our friend to figure it out on his own.