Lost I

"What the fuck do you think you're trying to pull here. I didn't hire you to start getting some sort of fucking ego. You better fucking call me back, or else there is going to be hell to pay. You owe me a fucking explanation. Fucker. What the fuck happened to the great Sharc vs. IBJ match you were going on and on about? What the FUCK happened to you, man? This is bull-fucking-shit. And if you couldn't tell, I'm fucking pissed off at you. Call me back."

Richard Hertz, the pissed off man behind Sharc, paced back and forth as he listened to the rage-filled message from who he *thought* was Reed Young. But he couldn't really be sure. It didn't sound a bit like him. He debated calling his cell phone. He debated going to sleep and just giving up on this business.

Instead, he just continued drinking. All he had at the moment was Budweiser and a bottle of Southern Comfort. It was doing enough for him.

What was he trying to pull? Nothing, actually. It's just time to open some people's eyes. The future isn't what it used to be. This trip through Action was built on lie after lie. Sharc put the liquid comfort to his lips and guzzled down what could easily have been three or four shots easily, as if it were just water. Hardcore Era, blah blah blah.

It just isn't working. Red Young hired him to be Sharc. To be the hardcore do-anything-to-get-a-pop Sharc. But Sharc just wasn't feeling it. His body was in decent shape, pain-wise at least. But he lost the heel that made him who he is. And he couldn't figure out why. Where was the spark in his life that made him come alive in the wrestling ring and get people to know exactly what the fuck he was thinking and feeling.

He wasn't gone. He was there. But something was just not right.

Sharc began dialing the numbers that would connect him with Reed Young. And then killed it.

What is there to explain. He didn't even know where this was all going. It was strange and completely different to anything he had done. He'd walked out on a wrestling match. Never had he done that before. Every day, every show, he was there. Maybe the doctors wouldn't clear him to wrestle, but he still wanted to.

Where is the spark?

IBJ. Wrestling 101. Sharc used to destroy useless little wrestlers. Wrestling just isn't violent enough. The hardcore spirit is dying. People want long careers with great psychology. Fuck psychology. Go to fucking college and study it if you want some of it. Wrestling never was about a story. It was about going out there and putting on a great show.

"Enjoy the fucking match," Rich said aloud, making his thoughts become audible. Lord knows if he even realized it. "I don't go to a wrestling event and go, gee, I hope they tell a great fucking story tonight in the ring. I want to see some bodies flying around in painful moves. I want to see blood. I want to see wrestlers fighting their asses off as if it were their last match. I don't want pretenders. I want to have somebody to cheer. I want some asshole to boo. I want to laugh or get pissed off. I don't give a shit about work rate or any of that fucking useless SHIT!"

Who has the right to be pissed at who.

As Sharc downed nearly a quarter of the Southern Comfort, he began staggering a bit. He dropped the bottle on the wood coffee table in front of the couch and then collapsed on the couch. He grabbed the bottle again and began guzzling more of it.

"Rich?" It was Amy, aka Bait, his girlfriend. She looked down at him, her face full of concern. "Why were you yelling? Getting drunk isn't gonna solve anything."

"I wasn't meaning it to, actually. Amy, what the hell happened to me? What the hell..." Rich grabbed his stomach and swallowed deeply. "I feel, like..." Rich suddenly sat bolt upright and was on his feet.

He wasn't gonna get to the toilet in time, or a sink. Rich collapsed to his knees and began to retch. He watched as blood red vomit escaped from him, as he struggled to breathe while snot clogged his nose and the vomit choked him. And it just kept coming. The floor became a pool of vomit, his stomach rejecting the hard liquor so it didn't send him to the hospital, or the morgue.

After what seemed like hours of vomiting, as his throat burned as if he were in a desert, as his stomach turned over and in upon itself, his brain heavy as hell, to heavy to do anything but fall to the floor. Into his own vomit. Into his own hell.

NEXT CHAPTER: Lost II >>