Adam Allocco vs. Hairless Penguin

[HARDStyle]

Day 0

After a certain point, amnesia becomes a blessing for an alcoholic like me. And what are blackouts other than self-fulfill amnesiac episodes? You kinda want to forget all those bad thoughts swirling around your head, especially those that meet the criteria of regret and require guilt. So why not crack open another can, and drink the cringe that your drunk ass created the night before under the table. Wake up and watch the cycle starts anew. Around and around, I go, an endless blur, a spin cycle of spewing my radioactive pollution into the world and pissing my pants along the way. Where you stop, I never did know! The next thing I knew, I jumped from that deep slumber with a start.

There’s a point where your liver and your brain level up, and the blackouts become rarer. The puking stops. But for a man with half a liver, that was just a teenage memory, but what memories I had of those glory days. Hell, I could argue that back then, Jack Daniels gave me enough liquid courage to show my true self to the world. Shush, shush my insecurities, listen to those drunken lullabies while I go out and be king with that temporary confidence. Of course, as a young buck, you start to feed off the fact you’re the life of the God damn party. Oh yeah, don’t forget the drunk, sloppy, yet fantastically wild sex that serves as your after party. For a boy with the napoleon complex, the body count gave y height a few extra itches. So many partners that I can’t even make out their faces; don’t even bother asking me for their names. All the same, that body count buried my insecurities deep into the Earth.

Regardless, I kept drinking. I kept partying. My drunken arrogance materialized in the sober realm. The lines blurred between those dimensions until I became whole. But I kept drinking.

Have I become a cliché? Another CHBK? Another wrestler suffering from substance abuse and crippling addiction. I don’t know what’s going on with my old rival. I don’t know how his story ended or if he continued to suffer. Why? Because why bother? I know so many wrestlers who were alcoholics, druggies, or both. Why is it such a surprise? After all, we live the rockstar lifestyle, but their bodies don’t sustain the physical punishment ours do in that ring. So yeah, we pop some pills and down them with a swig of vodka. Let’s stay up and forget how brains were shaken but not stirred, our muscles pulverized into mush, and our will stretched things like the arms of Reed Richards. If moving sucks, numb the pain. There, problem solved. Then go out into the night, open up the flood gates and cling onto the tiny slice of bliss before entering the pit again.

And tell me, what’s so wrong with that? What’s so wrong with a bit of bit self-medication. Okay, maybe in my case, a heavy dosage of self-medication. Don’t forget, I always played by the mantra: you work hard, you play hard. Where did I go wrong then? What’s wrong with me? Come on, there’s nothing wrong with you, Adam. Stop thinking that way. That’s impossible. Avoid thinking about that insidious presence living within, an infection so deep; why bother trying to sanitize. Let’s look away instead. Let’s ignore bland ugliness. There’s no fun fixating on what could be. Let’s grab a nice mound of ass, suck on big fat titties, and then down another shot of tequila. That’s the miracle cure.

That worked so well for so long. Or did it?

Something changed. Or had it always been this way?

I failed to shake off the feeling that something within the past year had changed. I couldn’t put a finger on what that change was. I didn’t know when, where, or how that change occurred. Only that there was something I missed, and now I dealt with its aftereffects. The writing was always on the wall, I supposed. Hindsight 20/20. When you’re stubborn like me, you don’t want to change. The writing was Chinese as far as I was concerned. The notion was revolting. But you know what’s worse than change? Especially for a narcissist like myself? Losing. I might be many things but let me tell you one thing. I wasn’t born a loser. I’m sure am not going to die as one.

Yet one cold ass day in January, I woke up a loser. I didn’t wake up in a bed. I was freezing. I knew instantly I must have passed outside somewhere. I leaned up. I groaned at the sight that greeted me. Some of my clothes bled out from an opened suitcase onto the cracked cement of the alleyway I found myself in. I crawled over. I couldn’t find any valuables in my bag or on my person. No airplane tickets. No wallet. No money. Fuck. I always did hate Chicago.

I held my head. I didn’t know I had a concussion or a hangover. Either way, the bright sun mocked me with its sunny deposition. Fuck off, Sun. Not today.

“Yo dude, you- you okay?” A voice addressed me from behind. I turned around and made eye contact with a homeless person. He happened to be the typical fare too. He laid on his side atop a thin piece of shipping foam like a bizarro pin-up model. His bottom half disappeared into a large cardboard box, so who knew if he had any pants on. I really didn’t want to find out.

“Do I look okay?”

“Chill, dude. Chill,” Hobo Playgirl Model said.

He then slithered out from his den. He indeed had pants on, my sweatpants to be exact. I clenched my fists. I walked over to him, intending to take back my belonging, but a gust of Chicago wind came roaring through the alleyway. I suddenly felt vulnerable. I had no pants on. That’s right, in broad daylight, I seemed to have lost my pants, and my dick now flapped freely like a flag in the wind. If this had happened in the darkness of night, I wouldn’t have been so concerned. I couldn’t count the number of times I pranced through the night, putting my magnificent body on display. But in board daylight? There were a lot more people around. That was how you ended up on a sex offender list. The thought of being on that list struck me hard with gear. Enough so, I dropped to my knees in a praying position. I really hated Chicago.

“Alright, buddy. Give my pants back. I promise I won’t hurt you. I promise I won’t call the cops on you. Just give me my pants.”

“I found these pants, fair and squire. Hell, can you even prove they’re your pants?”

“My name is on the legs. That’s my merch!”

“Prove it! Show me some ID, and I’ll give it back.”

“You probably have my wallet too!”

“Nah, dude, I don’t believe in that conspiracy called currency. I don’t believe that any government body should track you with identification. That’s sheer madness, man! Don’t even get me started about those cancer boxes called cellphones. I am out here living free!” Hobo Joe explained. Growing up, they said many mentally ill individuals ended up on the streets when the mental asylums shuttered their doors. Nowadays, many fell through the cracks of an inadequate safety net, or they simply couldn’t afford treatment. I have seen it with my own two eyes. Fellow wrestlers lost control of their lives and crashed until they ODed or washed right out of the business. And in Hobo Joe’s eyes, I saw crazy, but I also discerned he was telling the truth about the wallet... and his unfortunate beliefs.

“I get it. You live out here, eating out of dumpster cuisine to stick it to the man. You’re a real rebel, you know. You’re the one man who will bring down the entire establishment so we can live in an anarchist paradise,” I said. Do you blame me for mocking this man? I woke up without pants. My belongings have been taken. It’s fucking Chicago. Of course, I was going to be the cynical asshole

“Fuck you, dude. Fuck you. It ain’t as bad as you upper crust assholes make it out to be. And I know I’m not changing the world by living this way. I’m not trying to. I’m living my life my way. What’s wrong with that?” I opened my mouth to jump on Hobo Joe’s personal statement but stopped myself. If that was how he felt, who was I to argue? He had a choice to live his life his way. Joe continued, “There are homeless shelters for when the nights get too cold. There are always places that let you have lukewarm table scrapes before they get composted or tossed in a dumpster. Do I look starved to you?”

Now that I thought I could jump on, so I did. “You’re living it up on other people’s charity, huh? How does that make you a good guy?”

“True. I get by mostly through handouts. But most I eat what was only going to get tossed anyway. Most of what I wear was destined for a landfill.”

“Except my sweatpants right there. Ah-ha! I just poke a muthafucking hole in your logic, right there!”

“Let me keep them, man. These are nice. I’ll help you out. I promise. I’ll earn these bad boys.”

“How do you plan on doing that? You have nothing to offer me.”

Hobo Joe stood up. He strolled past me. Yes, I was still immobilized because my bottom half remained fully nude. Passersby ignored me for now. They must have figured I was another homeless nutcase. Hobo Joe reached into the wreckage of my suitcase to put out a pair of shorts. He tossed the golden ticket out of this mess over to me. The shorts would do. I leaned forward to see if there were any other options, but my suitcase had been emptied as I thought.

“I expect more than that.” What a fool he was! He made a critical mistake in giving me clothing. Now mobilized, I thought I could waltz right up to him and give him a good uppercut. I walked up to him, sizing the lanky homeless man. I felt my entire body shaking. Was it with the outrage this man stole from me and then taunted me with his loot?

“Listen, dude. You’re shaking. REALLY shaking. We need to get your soft ass warmed up. You don’t have a phone, man! You don’t have money, man! You have no identification, man! How ya’ll gonna get yourself out of this mess? I can keep you alive until you figure this shit out, even if it’s one night. You can’t say that’s not enough to earn these lovely sweatpants,” Hobo Joe said. Warm sounded wonderful. I needed to account for the fact that hypothermia existed. Hypothermia kills. I experienced a fantastic high once from flirting with hypothermia. I walked miles from school once without a jacket in subzero temperatures. Luckily, a classmate’s mom drove by and whisked me back to my house in time. Let me tell you about that euphoria of sudden temperature change when you enter your house. Almost beats an orgasm on ecstasy.

Besides, I didn’t have a game plan other than punching this man square in the face. And then what? I wanted to believe that someone would put in a missing person report after I didn’t show up for my flight or didn’t show up at the next SCW event; however, SCW and my own crew oozed with incompetence. They probably mistook this crisis as ‘another one of my so-called benders.’ Fuck that. I needed to act smart to survive these mean streets.

“You win.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Now, Joe, where do we go so I can stop freezing my ass off?” I asked.

“It’s Maximilian, but you can call me Max.”

“Joe, let’s not get personal. We don’t need to use our real names. Our friendship is only temporary. I don’t want any attachments.”

“Adam, you can be a real asshole sometimes. Are you aware of that fact, dude?” Joe responded.

“I’ve been told--- wait, did you use my name?”

“What? No, dude. No. You’re one paranoid guy.” He had to be fucking with me. I knew I was stupid for trusting him. He did have my wallet. All I needed was to find a police officer on the streets or get a hold of a cellphone. Call 9-1-1, report a robbery, and I can back drinking screwdrivers on the flight to the next city.

“You definitely called out my name. I definitely heard Adam.”

“No, man. Dude, chill… I clear my voice. Ah-HEM. Not Adam. But since the secret is out, nice to meet you, ADAM. I’m Maximilian; you can call me Max,” Max explained. I swore that I caught him in the lie; however, I started to second guess myself. My headspace struggled with a coherent thought process, either from the hangover or the head wound. I shook violently from my low body temperature. My top priority became heating my core body temperature up.

“Okay, Max. Where do we go to get me warm again?”

“It’s obvious. We go to the soup kitchen. Waiting in line will warm you up, and a bowl of soup, regardless of how bland that soup might be, will also help.”

“I’m not going to a soup kitchen.”

“Why not, dude? It’s the only way until the shelters open up for the night. By then, you’ll be a frostbitten dickisicle.”

“What if someone recognizes me? Then what! They’d mistake me for some penny-pinching scumbag trying to take from the poor,” I protested. I did have to protect my public image, after all. I didn’t want the ladies to think that I would go all cheap on our nights out. I dropped mad money on the ladies I keep around for company. Except for the Russians because they were both bitches. Speaking of Anastasia and Natalya, I needed to get a hold of them. They’d get me where I needed to be.

“No one cares about you, man. You’re nobody.” Ouch.

“I’m a celebrity. People will recognize me.”

“You are?”

“Yes!”

“You must be very low on the list because I don’t know who you are! I don’t recognize you, Adam!” Max said. Once again, I didn’t know whether or not he was joking. He had to know that I was on television. He was fucking with me. Max had to be. He probably was lying about the soup kitchen being the only viable option.

“I’m a star. I’m on television almost every week.”

“I don’t have a TV, Adam. They watch you from the other side. Don’t they teach anyone anything in school anymore? Dude, wake the fuck up,” Max responded. Max started towards the alleyway. I followed, hanging my head low in shame. I really did mess up this time. I’m stuck with this looney-toon as my only lifeline in this city. I really thought God enjoyed taking a big piss on top of my shaved head. For now, I decided to follow this plan. Maybe help would be sent if I was recognized, and then I’d be rescued.

That was how I ended up at the soup kitchen. The line slithered through the path cordoned off by the fabric rails. The pace seemed precisely slow. I pressed myself against the person before him. I received elbows back, but I didn’t care. My teeth chattered uncontrollably from the cold. I needed to get as far from that door as possible. Eventually, I progressed in the queue far enough that the cold air entering the building didn’t noticeably affect me. In fact, cuddling with the stranger before me helped warm my body above the waist. I debated taking my molestation further and climbing into the person’s jacket.

The soup wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. If someone told me that this was Campbell’s, I wouldn’t be terribly surprised. The scarcity of hefty components floating in the chicken broth reminded me of such. The soup did do the trick about my body shaking. I was grateful for the help and carried my and Max’s trays to the drop-off point. I noticed an unattended cellphone hooked up to the wall outlet and resting on the floor. I quickly scanned to see if anyone was paying any attention to little ol’ me.

Then I darted, snatching up the cellphone quickly. I spun away, knocking my shoulder into the kitchen, where the giant bubbling cauldrons spit out a steady steam. My, oh my, how lucky can one man be! I thought I only needed to put one call in, and the rest would work itself out. My thumbs hovered over the phone’s keypad, but no number ever came to mine. He had all that nonsense saved elsewhere. I stood there, staring at the phone like some sort of alien weaponry had fallen from space. Then the cell went off with whole vibration and a Taylor Swift song. I panicked, throwing my arms up. The phone slipped out of my hand and landed into one of the pots. I knew then I should have notified someone of the colossal blunder, but that would be too embarrassing.

“I was looking for you. Where have you been, dude? Never mind, none of my business. You ready to leave?”

“Let’s go.” I said.

As we entered the phone, I heard an alamed woman call out: “Has anyone seen my phone?”