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The Freedom Kid


Kid's broken up over this whole PansyAss thing. Like, real broken up. I'd say I can't blame him, but I can.

Kid needs to learn responsibility.

He's responsible for his actions, responsible for losing to Eddie Williams, responsible for figuring out he's not a loser, no matter what championship he holds... it's his responsibility to prove, to himself and everybody, that he's a winner. There are no draws in the game of life.

He just doesn't know that yet.

As long as he draws breath, he's still in the game. Same goes for me. Sure, this motel room is a pit. Sure, I'm a little bit drunky, I'm a little bit drunk 'n stoned. Sure, my agent is a guy who couldn't tell you in three guesses what I do for a living. But I'm drawing breath, drawing it right out of a Newport and sure the smoking rooms cost more, but you only live once.

Course, if I don't make some serious bank, and soon, I'm gonna be out of the game. The glaziers find me whereever I go, leave me subtle little announcements of their presence like shards of glass in my pillowcase.

They say I've only given them enough money so far to rebuild the lobby of their museum and, hey, I agree that just a lobby doesn't make much of a museum.

But if I start driving now, I can make my next appearance and maybe get real paid. That winner's purse is looking damn appealing, so I throw some clothes on.

The girl working the desk is cute, keeps giving me these big, transceiving eyes, but fuck me if I have time for women these days, not when I'm in love with Amanda and she's going out with that lame fucker Michael.

Michael White, one half of the White Brothers tag team with his older brother Christian. And frankly, I have to wonder if that family has some bedsheets in their closet. Christian White? I mean, what the fuck? Who's he feuding with, Darkie Jewberg?

But I check out without incident, despite this chick making more passes at me than a strafing plane. I don't know if she's desperate or I just look as good as I feel right now, but it's no big thing. If I cared, I'd ask, but I don't, so I won't.

I load my luggage into my Jetta, which doesn't take long. I travel light, and it's served me well for thirteen years.

I'm about to give Jommy a call when those telltale blues and reds start flashing in my rearview. Fuck. I'm driving fine, right, no hint of a weave, and let me tell you I've seen drunks weave like Aretha Franklin, and I'm not even speeding, so what the fuck? And only now does it occur to me that I reek not only of booze, but POT, which I've done maybe half a dozen times since high school, and FUCK.

To be honest, "I've only had a couple beers, officer" isn't part of my functional vocabulary, I don't speak that language, but before I can launch into a tirade about how utterly fucked up I am the cop's asking me for my autograph. Says there aren't many blue Jettas with Massachusetts plates in Arizona. Says he's the Phoenix Chapter of the Piter Svoboda Fan Club, and he's gonna rub this in the Tucson Chapter's face.

I'm still in the game.