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Melbourne, Australia. Early June, 2007. My knees are covered in other people's piss and I'm puking. My chin is resting on the cold porcelain bowl of a nightclub toilet and I'm hoping with whatever part of my brain that isn't spinning that the wet, chunky gristle I can feel under my face came out of me and nobody else. This is what I've become. Only a month ago I was in Tennessee with the TWF World Title around my waist. I was riding with Jade Diamond and Dustin Iler. I had the world at my feet. But now I'm in a filthy cubicle in the restroom of whichever Melbourne nightclub my new friend has taken me to. "Hey! You're Jamie Krenshaw!" he'd said as I ambled down Lonsdale Street, cigarette in one hand, vodka-filled water bottle in the other. "Yes." I'd replied. I'd only been back in Australia for a week and was already tiring of the constant attention. FACT ABOUT AUSTRALIA: If an Australian makes it big in America, he is a GOD. No matter how stupid or untalented he is, no matter how minor or irrelevant his actual accomplishments are, he instantly becomes a GREAT AUSTRALIAN.
"What are you doing tonight, man?"
"Haunting the city." I took a drag from my cigarette and washed down the smoke with a gulp of vodka.
"Oh, right. Well, if you want to come get fucked up, I'm going to [insert name of ridiculous nightclub here] and meeting some friends. You won't have to buy a drink all night."
"Is that a fact?"
"Yeah, sure." The excitement in this stranger's eyes would have perhaps been cute to someone less misanthropic. You could almost see his brain chugging along, envisioning just how cool and rad he would look to all his friends if he showed up at the club with JAMIE FUCKING KRENSHAW.
"You got any powder?"
"Uhm," he stammered.
"Coke. Do you have any coke?" I replied, sensing my time was being wasted.
"Oh! I'm sure we can get some." He chirped hopefully.
"You'd better."
And with that I'd followed him to, well, wherever I am now. Puking. Surrounded by obnoxious, throbbing music. Turned out he couldn't get any cocaine. All he could muster was a bunch of pills which I had instantly thrown down my throat. From there, however briefly, the night had taken a turn for the better. Within thirty minutes of dropping the pills, I was on the receiving end of a clumsy blowjob in the restroom. I sat on the very same bowl my face is currently leaning on as some star-eyed groupie did her best to please.
You should have seen the look on her face when I vomited on her.
Orange-specked, skin-toned chunks covered her hair as she violently pulled away from me and screamed. Bewildered and confused by what I'd just done, I gazed at the horrified expression on her puke-ravaged head. And I laughed and laughed.
"You arsehole!" Her hysterical, shrieking voice just made the whole thing funnier. By the time she exited the cubicle and ran away, a mess of flailing limbs and ruined hair, I could barely breathe for all the laffs. It was about that time I felt the next wave of sick rising up. I twisted around and plunged my face into the bowl and within seconds, well, you know that film "A River Runs Through It"? That title fairly accurately describes what followed.
Which brings us to now. Me, knelt beside a toilet bowl, finally empty of whatever it was I was throwing up. My knees covered in other people's piss. My chin covered in what I hope is vomit. I gingerly get up and attempt to clear my bitterly stinging throat. Eventually, I exit the cubicle and approach the line of sinks. I hold my hands under running water and splash it all over my face. I do my best to make myself clean. Or at least, clean-looking. And just when I'm satisfied I turn around to find my new friend, my vomit victim and a pack of guys I've never seen before.
"That's him!" screams the girl. I've probably destroyed her celebrity-worship forever. She should be thankful.
"What the fuck, Jamie?" says my new friend. God, I wish I could remember his name. This situation may be a little less volatile if I could.
"You vomited on my fucking sister!"
Oh dear. I count the number of men who are slowly cornering me in the restroom and quickly come to the summation that, nope, I can't fight them all.
"I'm sorry." I say. I look to the girl. "I'm really very sorry, babe. I didn't mean it."
"Fuck you!" she shrieks. Obviously a little late for apologizing then.
"Ah shit," I shrug and then throw the first punch. It hits my new friend square in the nose and the sound is delightful. He collapses like a tumbling blood fountain and as pride warms me, I'm tackled to the ground and descended upon by the pack of guys. It's almost an out-of-body experience, like I'm somewhere else watching as these guys punch and kick at me; as their friend barks orders whilst clutching his mangled nose; as his sister yells "get him! get him!"
Maybe it's all the vodka and pills I've imbibed but this really doesn't hurt terribly much. In fact, I all but give up fighting back and just lay there prone as the mob take their shots. Eventually, I assume, they feel like the job is done and I've had enough, because soon enough I'm all alone. Again, I get up gingerly and again I approach the line of sinks. I'm a bloody mess. Again, I cup my hands under the running tap and I wash myself clean. Or at least, clean-looking.
Once I'm done I gaze into the mirror and stare at myself. And I smile.
All things considered, the night could have been a lot worse.
It happened two years ago, just like that. And why am I telling you this, you may wonder? Simple: If you want to understand the man I am, you have to first understand the man I was.
CUT TO: Modern times. We're outside the small two-story block of dodgy apartments that Jamie Krenshaw calls home. It's a warm day and standing in the apartment building's car park is the Virtuoso of Violence himself. Beside him, holding a microphone and gazing at Jamie with the kind of reverence a child has for Santa Claus is the "Aussie News Breaker" Tony Prescott.
 Tony casts his attention to the camera and begins the segment, speaking with his strong Australian accent. TONY: G'day blokes, I'm Tony Prescott and I'm here in the United States, representing Australia's biggest sports show Yay! Running! With me is one of Australia's greatest sportsmen and the self-proclaimed Undisputed Champion of Fatherhood, Jamie Krenshaw. Tony turns to Krenshaw and grins. TONY: Jamie, it's a pleasure to have you. JAMIE: Correct. TONY: Now, Jamie, this past week you made your TWD debut, wrestling against and soundly defeating Adam Young. Your thoughts? Jamie's posture is all disinterest and contempt. He looks down at his interviewer with a wry grin. JAMIE: My thoughts? To be honest with you, I haven't given a moment's thought to that match since I won it. It was Adam Young, who cares? TONY: You must at least be a little pleased that you managed a submission win, forcing Young to tap out to the Down Under Deathlock? JAMIE: Oh, I must, must I? And what do you mean "managed" a submission win. Of course I made Adam Young submit. For all his bluster and cussing, once he's in the ring, Adam's no more than a manchild trapped in a man's world. A world that I despise, I hasten to add. TONY: Okay, fair enough. But, you've been in The Wrestling Domain for a few weeks now. How are you finding it? Is your stance towards the wrestling industry easing up as you reacquaint yourself with it? A look of disdain on the face of the Virtuoso. JAMIE: Am I easing up? What, you think because I got in a wrestling ring and won a match that I've suddenly forgotten who I am and what I stand for? Of course my stance hasn't "eased up", if anything this past Showdown has strengthened my resolve. For the first time in a long time I performed for a packed house and for the first time in my career I saw those people in the stands for the ingrates they truly are. Baahing and chanting "T-W-D" like they owned the place. Like they're loyal or "hardcore". You just know that next time TNA comes through town all those same people will be at that show, chanting "T-N-A" and seeing who has the deepest throat for Jeff Jarrett to shove his "promotion" down. It's disgusting. With each new second I spend within this industry, I feel like a vice is being tightened on me. Make no mistake, Tony, once I've made enough money to secure my family the life they deserve, I will have no trouble saying adios to the wrestling business. Tony breathes deeply, taken aback and somewhat excited by the strength of Jamie's conviction. TONY: Okay, a new line of inquiry then. A few weeks ago, a wrestler new to TWD and the business in general, SABER, made some remarks about you. A look of confusion from Krenshaw. JAMIE: Pardon? TONY: Saber, who is wrestling his first match in The Wrestling Domain this coming Showdown made comments about a few wrestlers. He labeled you: "some bitter,”dingo ate my baby” has been who can't take care of his family." Any comments? Jamie grins. JAMIE: That's cute. So this guy's new? TONY: Debuting on the next show. JAMIE: And, if I'm correct, this is the same debuting wrestler whose gimmick is that "respect needs to be brought back to wrestling"? TONY: That's right. Another grin from the Virtuoso. JAMIE: Look, I think it's cute that this kid is trying to make a name for himself by name-checking men far above his station, I really do. However, I question how someone so preoccupied with "respect" can be so quick to pull the race card to mock me. More than that, I question how somebody who purports to respect people can make fun of a killed baby. Let alone, a killed nine-week old baby whose mother was subsequently wrongly imprisoned. That whole sordid tale was a tragedy in my country but obviously, to SABER, respect doesn't extend beyond a wrestling ring. That's sad but, Tony, it reinforces what I've been saying ever since I returned. This business is full of misguided, arrogant individuals who buy into their own hype and refuse to step back and see things for how they really are. Jamie looks dead into the camera. JAMIE: SABER, if you really wanted to learn about this business like you say you do, you'd spend less time mocking dead babies and more time listening to what I have to say. I'm a fountain of wisdom, SABER. Drink me. Jamie turns his attention back to his interviewer. TONY: Strong words there, Jamie. Do you have words of similar impact for your next opponent, Dragzilla? Jamie rolls his eyes, already bored by the interview. Luckily for him, Europe's "The Final Countdown" starts playing, signaling a phone call. Jamie quickly reaches into his pocket and retrieves his mobile phone. JAMIE: Excuse me. Jamie turns his back to the camera and answers his phone. JAMIE: Hello? * pause * Oh hi, babe, what's happening? * pause * Nothing important, I can talk. Jamie continues his conversation as Tony stands idly, uncomfortable. Eventually Jamie turns to Prescott. JAMIE: It's my wife, I have to take this. You've got enough, right? TONY: Ye... JAMIE: Good. And with that Jamie turns away and continues his phone call. JAMIE: Can you pass me onto the little munchkin? * pause * Hello sweety, it's Daddy, how are you? Tony Prescott walks away disappointed and yearning for more face time with Jamie as the image fades. CUT.
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 Dragzilla's never-to-be-fulfilled wet dream. |