Every Boy’s and Girl’s Boogeyman

I’m going to stay up later than I ever have before! Mummy told me the boogeyman comes out after midnight but I’m not scared. I know all the hiding places in the house. He doesn’t. Even with fingers dark as night he can’t find me. The other kids say the boogeyman isn’t real. But I know. I’ve seen the scars he left on Mummy. The bruises. I’m waiting up for him with my bat I play baseball with. Mummy’s in bed, snoring. She took her medicine tonight and fell asleep on her bed. She must be warm coz she hasn’t pulled the covers over her. Daddy finishes work in the middle of the night, too. Sometimes I hear him screaming when he comes home and sees what that awful boogeyman has done to his wife. They cry together, holding each other in front of a picture of my brother and me. I. I’m a good girl in my special pajamas. They have Spiderman on them. He’s swinging through a little city. He protects people who’ve done no wrong. I’ll swing my bat at the boogeyman and he’ll go away. My hands smell like used cars from the bat’s rubber grip. I put the TV on in the other room to distract him—it’s turning my face aquarium colours, lime and aqua. When the clock next strikes it’ll be midnight. I can almost hear the TV, even though it’s on mute. Hear the colours changing. Staticky, like the tide. GONG. The clock chimes. The doorhandles turns. I close my hand deep into rubber, hold the bat over my shoulder. The door opens and the boogeyman walks in. He looks like Daddy but smells like the homeless men we see on the street when mummy drags me in close to her leg. He sees the TV left on and his face turns red and veiny. He swears, with spit. I know it only looks like Daddy but I hesitate. Then it drinks from a brown bottle, breathes in a cigarette. I know daddy doesn’t drink. I know he doesn’t smoke. I come out of the shadows, unseen, unheard, the bat over my head, a hummingbird in my chest and I attack.

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Optional Extras x NXT x Bodybuilding Bouncers

Had to go to the city to see some wrestling. At home spending hours homing in on the requisite state of drunk & high to catch the damn train. Arrive hours later and rush to the hotel to check in. Nice place, steady elevator with no smell, tiny narrow hallways that can’t possibly be as silent as they are. Tiny room that has more than enough space and frivolous bullshit for these rural boys. I thought the previous guests had left some casual drinks in the mini fridge which was safely encased between 2 inches of fake marble. I went to grab a Peroni and feel its malty refreshment. God how naive I was. Then my much more well-travelled friend told me I was a jerk off and that we’d have to pay for whatever we consumed afterward. That nothing was free once you left the hermitage of your bedroom, that they were trying to intrude costs into there as well. It turned out there was a small drinks menu (un-professionally typeset [noted]) on the counter in a plastic upright that you might see at a kitsch-as-fuck eatery where previous dining experience was not assumed. Even though my friend explained to me the rules of engagement out here in real life Parker Bros world, I continued to be stitched-up. Like, we’re in a room with two beds and when I see two water bottles on the bedside tables I think, What a lovey concession. Nope. They have specially designed and printed labels around the top saying they can cure your thirst and realign your bodies pH balance for just $2. As with the fruitbowl- life for a price.

There are iPhone chargers (with extensions for every other imaginable phone brand) provided which are free so I go off on an intelligence-gaining jaunt around the 12-foot room. It turns out it’s only things you need that cost money; i.e, all the food and drinks. All the unnecessary amenities are free. This is great marketing because everything you need to consume the pay-only items are free, but also bad because obviously you have to purchase a pay-only thing in order to employ them. It good for Quest because then you have to purchase a $9.20 beer to use the free can opener, or order over-priced food to use the free cutlery on the fake granite bench. I do a shit and wonder what it will cost me but it turns out flushing the toilet is free, as is the tiled glass-doored shower, which is in the same small room and only separated by an opaque green wall of glass. After pacing a circuit into the perimeter of the room my dogs are barking so I sit down on this fluffy chair in the corner that has gone lumpy from the passage of non-coordinated buttocks. My ass sinks in deep when I sit and I wonder if their isn’t some spring-loaded mechanism that’s gonna click and send a surreptitious message to the front desk that one of the patrons have sat on the comfy chair and will have to be billed later. I don’t care, I look out the unclean window panes at the free view.

Catch a silent uber to a crazy NXT show. Joe vs Nakamura in a cage, Dillinger, Roode, Regal, more $9 Heinekens, $7 buckets of chips, overpriced merchandise, $50 Strong Style hats, promo girls in black jeans and heels that make your heart feel vertigo handing out WWE store discounts. It’s all good business but god does it feel alienating. Not because you can’t get what you want, but because when you’re there you feel like you want things that you know you don’t, so you begin to feel isolated from yourself. Like, I’m pretty cocked when we get there yet I stand in a lengthy line to buy 4 beers that cost nearly $40 just because there is a line and there’s nothing else to do and I am out in the city for once. There’s sound and light and garish merchandise and other people running to their seats with trays of beers and it all engenders some sort of sperm competition to buy things you know you don’t want but think you’ll feel better when you have. As a result I’m standing there with my paper thin wallet and tray of beers considering buying the last ‘Glorious’ shirt in large knowing damn well a piddly L will never fit me. I find my seat and try to sit there without incurring extra costs.

After the show we head to a bar that has $5 Captain Morgans and bouncers that all apparently share the same HGH dealer. I can’t remember the name of the place but they are playing the WORST commercial pop from like 4-5 years ago. My friend goes put to the smokers area with his beer in hand and is nearly F-5’d by a bouncer who is downright incredulous someone could have made such an oblivious decision. We drink rounds of Cpt Morgs and spend spare change playing games of skill, silently acknowledging that we could be saving our money for the uber home. And I mean to the hotel room, not home.