Disappointment. Sorrow. Rage. Self-Loathing. These are just some of the emotions Mortimer Kjedelig is feeling three and a half hours after losing his match to Tony Gamble. There would be no moral victory for Mortimer Kjedelig. He did not just lose a match, he potentially lost his soul. His cousin, Mikey, would hire him to do some not-so-nice things to people that he could rationalize deserved it.
“You borrowed money and can’t pay back? Fuck you, I’m breakin’ your thumbs.”
“You slapped your girlfriend, who happens to go to church with Mikey’s best friend’s grandmother? You’re losin’ some teeth.”
“You don’t have your tribute for sellin’ smack on Mikey’s turf? Well, you’re gettin’ roughed up. Consider it karma for sellin’ smack.”
“You just bought a Lexus after you….”
Okay, so he could not completely justify every action other than he needed the money and his mother’s health was deteriorating. Or he was just incredibly pissed off that he did not get another acting job and he needed something to channel that rage through.
But that was then…..
He took advantage of the opportunity to leave that life behind. Sure, he misses the gambling (which he still does, there’s always a poker game somewhere and online betting has a certain appeal). Sure, he misses hanging out with the guys….even if those guys were Mikey’s crew and they were ball busting fucknozzles. And yeah, there was the rush of doing something that was illegal and then getting away with it that was exhilarating…..
Not as exhilarating as performing on stage in front of a live audience, hearing the cheers as he came out for his curtain call. And not as exhilarating as professional wrestling.
A loss like this…..
He has no one to commiserate with….
Even Buster Gloves has his kids.
All Mortimer Kjedelig can do right now is stare at the floor.
Until that staring is interrupted by a young lad, maybe nineteen or twenty with floppy, curly dirty blond hair and more zits than several “before” images on a Neutrogena commercial, and wearing a PRIME polo shirt, wJIho enters the locker room. He fidgets nervously as he approaches Mortimer Kjedeling.
YOUNG MAN: Are, uh, you, uh, Mortimer Kuh….Kuh-Joh…Kuh-juh…..
MORTIMER KJEDELIG: Yeah, what is it?
YOUNG MAN: Mister Gamble wanted me to give you a message….
The Young Man pulls a folded and partially crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and offers it to Mortimer Kjedelig who rises from the bench. Mortimer snatches the note from the Young Man’s trembling hands.
MORTIMER KJEDELIG: What’s your name, kid?
YOUNG MAN: Uh, Jim?
MORTIMER KJEDELIG: What? You aren’t sure of your name?
MORTIMER KJEDELIG: What do you here, “Uh, Jim”?
JIM: I dunno. Run errands?
MORTIMER KJEDELIG: The fuck you askin’ me for? Don’t you know?
JIM: I’m just, uh, delivering a message.
MORTIMER KJEDELIG: Yeah, let’s see what this message says, shall we, “Uh, Jim”?
Mortimer Kjedelig begins unfolding the note and proceeds to read it. Once he is finished, his lip quivers, his eye twitches, and he begins ripping the note up in what can only be described as a tantrum. He tosses the pieces of paper in the air like confetti.
MORTIMER KJEDELIG: MOTHERFUCKIN’ SHITBAG!!!!
JIM: Um, I need to, uh, go?
MORTIMER KJEDELIG: What’s stoppin’ ya?
JIM: Mister, uhhhhh, Gamble said you would, uh, give me a tip? Somethin’ with at least a, uh, and this is, um, his words?….an, um, Andrew Jackson.
MORTIMER KJEDELIG: I lost to him so he treats me like some fuckin’ jerk off? You know what the letter said? It said my name needs to be changed. That fuckin’ prick is expectin’ me to alterate my pseudo-name, my name-de-plum?! Just because he’s askin’ me to? Just because I’m now a member of G.A.S.?????
JIM (shrugging haplessly): Uh, I ‘unno.
MORTIMER KJEDELIG: Fine! He wants names? Let’s give him some fuckin’ names!
JIM: My mom is waiting for me?
MORTIMER KJEDELIG: You’re not gettin’ a dime until we offer some suggestions for this prick.
JIM: What, uh, about Montana? Like my dad talks about Joe Montana, he sounds like, uh, someone? And there’s Tony? And Hannah?
MORTIMER KJEDELIG: Fine. Mortimer Montana. What else we got? Morty Las Vegas! Morty Daytona! Mortimer Randolph the Third! Mortimer McMaynerberry! Morty the
JIM: Yeah, I’m not, uh—-
MORTIMER KJEDELIG: Yeah, I got a lot of anagrammed shit. We can’t change the initials. M.K….M.K….Morty Knockout….Mortimer Kentucky….Morty Killamanjaro…Mortimer Katmandu…..Mortimer C. Kick-Ass, it sounds, you know, cooler if we say “M.C. Kick-Ass”.
JIM: No…it, uh, doesn’t?
MORTIMER KJEDELIG: I got it!…No, wait…Morty…Kuh…Kuh…Kjedelig. No, that’s what it is now. Gimme a second. Let me contemperate my varying options that are, currently, without a doubt, flooding through the firing syntaxes of my mind, of which is working non-stop with a multiplexitude of names as I am speakin’ to you now. Morty Kaaaaaaaaaaaleidoscope. Fuck, that sucks! Hold on…..
Mortimer reaches into his duffel bag and pulls out a small pad and a mechanical pencil. He presses down on the eraser three times and writes down a few names and hands it to Jim.
MORTIMER KJEDELIG: You hand this note over to him personally, capice? I’m not fuckin’ around.
JIM: Yuh-huh. Got it.
Mortimer hands Jim a twenty and rubs his hand through Jim’s hair.
MORTIMER KJEDELIG: You’re a good kid.
Mortimer pulls back his hand which is damp from Jim’s hair sweat and Morty’s face contorts to a level disgust usually reserved for someone stuck in an elevator with explosive diarrhea and they have no choice but to let the flood gates break apart. As he wipes his hand on a towel laying on the bench, he dismisses the PRIME errand boy.
MORTIMER KJEDELIG: Get the fuck outta here.
Morty flippantly and dismissively waves the young man off, vowing that if that message is not delivered, he will reign down an armageddon level of hurt on Jim to the point where he will need years of therapy just to process it. Morty reaches into his bag for his Purell as the scene comes to a close.