…let me remind you just who I am…
May 26th, 2012
A brightly lit bathroom
New York, New York
A swinging lamp post sways back and forth, lighting various areas of the room. There’s a quarter inch of filth on the floor, primarily grease, among other things. An older man is propped up in a dirty corner, piss drunk and passed out. An empty bottle of scotch lays cracked on the floor beside him. A teenager is standing at the urinal taking a piss, he’s got a lit-joint hanging from a fat lip. Me, I’m doing all but surviving in a stall. My pants are around my ankles. I was multi-tasking – taking a shit while shooting heroin.
Relapse never felt this good.
It’s been well over a year since Sin Wrestling closed its doors. That means no work for me. That means tons of free time. That means, my mind is clear. That means, well, I’ve been up to no good. My body aches. I’m way past my prime. And yet, here I am alive and ticking – well, barely that is.
I pulled the needle out of my arm and unwrapped the band that was tight around it. I relaxed my head and neck as the drug shot through my veins, up and down my body – making me feel alive again. I’m in terrible shape. I’ve hit rock bottom.
I need some sort of spark to light the fire underneath my ass. I need to live for something other than my addiction. I need to let go of the demons that have surrounded me for the past 13 months and focus on something worth my while. I need to go back to that place….that place called Sin.
I’m better than this. I’m a former World Champion, a hall of famer. Fuck, I’m a legend for Christ sake. And yet, here I am, wasting my life away. Could I possibly reclaim my status once again? Could I take charge of this playground and lead amongst my group of peers? Could I wear the crown of gold while beggars lay grabbling at my feet? Sure I could, but not likely in this condition.
Who, aside from myself, could stop me? Corey Page? No. Chris Extreme? Nooooooooo.
What about Teresa Quaranta? Fuck on that slut. If I rubbed two nickles together, she’d pull out her titties and surround my cock with them, stroking it back and forth. She’d then suck me dry. Yea, she’s got nothing on me. But she’ll have cum on her for sure.
Stevie Swing? Ditto.
And Jake Norton? Poor little old Jake Norton. Even if he had an ounce of spectacular in the palm of his hands he wouldn’t know what to do with it. He looks like a pedophile, cries like a bitch and most likely has aids. The leftover shit on his dick could be a dead giveaway there.
No, nothing, nobody compares to me. As cliché as it sounds, I am the chosen one. Nobody does it better than I do. My name is Travis Miller. Get ready to hear me roar.
A teardrop falls from my drooping eyelids. I’m in a heroin coma now. Fuck, I think I just ODed. Is this the end for me? Or, because I’ve hit rock bottom, is it the beginning? We shall see.
"Who else could talk themselves around in circles? And to speak the most irrational stupidity? That's right, no one else. When it comes to being an obnoxious tool, Travis Miller takes the cake." - Corey
"Who needs sleep when there's sex to have?" - Travis Miller
frozenatlantic: I SWERVED YOU
triggatrav06: ut oh
triggatrav06: i got swerved