Atlas Mugged….He’s prick and a thief

Indignity of indignities.  Anger management.  In ninth grade, a couple of demented members of the high school lacrosse team thought it would be a hoot to “pants” (to the uniformed, that is the forcibly removal of pants to an unwilling subject by a third party/parties) Mortimer, then Rowan, and throw, yes, thrown his scrawny half naked ass into the girls’ locker room.  That was only slightly less embarrassing than sitting in a psychologist’s office with three other people who represented the scum of society. 

Mortimer sat across from Tiffany, a woman in her thirties that recounted at the beginning of the session how she had burned her ex-boyfriend’s car and shaved her head in an act of, Mortimer can only assume, insanity.   Although, the short blonde crew cut thing she had going on worked for her given her ensemble of boots, fishnets, and a leather jacket.

To her left and Mortimer’s right there was Todd, a rather muscular gentleman who took every slight as a veiled insult regarding the size of his penis.  

To Mortimer’s left there was the final member of this Anger Management session, Ned.  Ned did not say much, only to state that he had been working on his breathing exercises and he no longer felt the urge to strangle his landlady again.  Mortimer did not know what Ned meant by again and he did not want to know.  He just wanted to sit there quietly and let time run out.

With about ten minutes before the end of the hour (although, after paperwork it was more like forty-five minutes), Mortimer thought he was home free but, alas, he was not.  Todd had finished his enthralling story about how just because he drives a Ferrari does not make his penis small, if anything it should show how large his balls are….the correlation was lost on Mortimer but he really was not paying attention.

Dr. Elliot Wiggy. Yes, Dr. Wiggy.  A man named Dr. Wiggy the therapeutic mind that ran this anger management group.  When he heard the name, Mortimer vowed that if Dr. Wiggy started singing about fruit salad or having a “Wiggly” party, he was going to pop of his chair and power walk the fuck out of that building.   Dr. Wiggy whose gaze was fixated on his legal pad and looked up, over his glasses, towards Mortimer, and asked in a raspy, smoker’s voice….”

DR. WIGGY: We have enough time for our newcomer to share what brings him here today.

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  Yeah, I don’t think so.

From behind him, Mortimer heard the rather deliberate sound of someone clearing his throat.  That someone had escorted Mortimer to this session.   A session that Mortimer saw as punishment for beating on some guy in a Texas pizzeria, a pizzeria that could not tell the difference between a good slice of pizza and a spotted dick.   When he turned his head, he saw Frank Pastore standing next to the door, pointing towards the doctor, urging him to participate, in what could be described as a mildly threatening way.   Before Mortimer could say a word, Ned spoke up in his very nasally voice.

NED:  Does he have to be here?  He makes me very uncomfortable.

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  Yeah, yeah he does.

DR. WIGGY:  May we ask why?

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  No, you may not inquire as to the reasonin’ behind—

Frank Pastore clears his throat again.  Mortimer mutters an obscenity as he glances over at his other, what would he call them, “colleagues”?   The fact that he would be lumped in with this rather dubious group of scumbags.

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  I stand, apparently, corrected.  I am here because a certain person of whom I am pledgin’ complete adoration towards felt the need to have this particular gentleman escort me to and from this meetin’ for reasons that can only be ascribed to a lack of trust between myself and said adored individual.  

NED:  I don’t get it.

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  You don’t need to get it. The fact is, I am here because this individual invested a few G’s into a little business called “Don’t Call the Cops” and, in turn, so as not to have a repeated nuclear event vis a vis my anger at the wrong time, i.e., at him, I am here and he did not trust me enough to believe that I would come on my own cognisance. Of which, he may or may not have right in makin’ that assumption.   But still, one should not make assumptions, for, as the man said “When you assume, you make an ass—-

DR. WIGGY:  May I ask you a question?

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  You just did.

DR. WIGGY:  Are you stalling for time?

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  Fuck no!

He totally was.  Mortimer thought if he could just talk nonsense for the next few minutes he would be home free but the good doctor saw right through it. 

DR. WIGGY:  I think you are lying.  And that is alright, everyone here came in with some resistance but now, have come to realize that this is a safe space. 

Mortimer once again glanced over his shoulder to see Frank Pastore glaring at him.   Mortimer knew Frank thought this was a tankless job bringing him here which is why he tried to bribe him with eighteen dollars cash money and a Subway coupon.   Two dollars off a foot long?  That was a great deal.  It was a total bribe of twenty buck.   Frank mentioned it was not enough….and Tony Gamble would have his ass shoved into a meat grinder if he did not deliver Mortimer to his scheduled embarrassment….or appointment, depending on who was asked and what mood they were in when asked.  

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  Ya know what?  Fuck it, right?  There’s this joke by, uh….Hm, shit, what was his name?   Comedian.  He was in “Easy Money” and “Back to School”.

TODD:  Seinfeld.

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  It wasn’t Seinfeld.

TODD:  Seinfeld is a comedian.

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  IT’S NOT FUCKIN’ SEINFELD!

DR. WIGGY:  I think we need to remind you that we want to treat each other with respect, which means we avoid aggressive words and tones.  If you feel like you are about to get aggravated and possibly say something, we abide by the ten second rule. 

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  Fuck that.  You gonna make me speak?  Fine, but I will not censor myself.

DR. WIGGY:  We are not asking you censor yourself, just remember where you are and respect the people who are here.  Now, if you prefer not to express your feelings today, that is understandable.  Perhaps, just introduce yourself and what led you here today.

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  I was tryin’ until they started in with the Seinfeld shit.

TIFFANY:  Rodney Dangerfield.

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  No, they were talkin’ about Seinfeld!  Geez, I thought we were supposed to listen to one another.

TIFFANY:  Rodney Dangerfield was in “Back to School”.

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  Riiiiiiiiiight!  Rodney Dangerfeld!

TIFFANY:  Dangerfield.

DR. WIGGY:  What did we say about correcting people?

TIFFANY:  But he was wrong.

DR. WIGGY:  Tiffany?

TIFFANY (to Mortimer):  I’m sorry.

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  Whatever, the point is, there’s this joke, see?  A man goes to his psychiatrist and says “Everyone hates me.”  The psychiatrist says “That’s pre-posthumous.  You haven’t met everyone yet.”  That’s what I’m strugglin’ with, okay?  The reasons of which, I will not get into at this junction, but needless to say, I’ve been treated like the second comin’ of Hitler.  And professionally, I know I’m a laughin’ stock.  Those that don’t matter treat me like one of them diseased leopards with their dicks fallin’ off and those that do matter don’t even acknowledge my existence.

Mortimer was not going to give them the satisfaction of hearing the truth.  There would be no mention of Kohime Mori.   There would be no discussion about how he feels about her.   He would remain silent about how utterly terrified he was at the thought of facing her for the first time since the incident.  He would rather have them think what they will than give them one nugget of truth.

DR. WIGGY:  I acknowledge your feelings but is it possible that you might be exaggerating?

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  Frank, what’re they callin’ me now?

FRANK PASTORE:  “DBG”

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  Which stands for?

FRANK PASTORE:  “Dickweed Bastard Gremlin”.

Todd let out a giggle.

TODD:  ….Dickweed…..

Todd giggled even more as if he were being tickled by a feather as Mortimer Knightingale’s eye began to twitch ever so slightly.  Mortimer sneered at the muscular gentlemen who seemed to be able to contain his anger but unable to stop chuckling.

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  The fuck!  I’m openin’ up to you pricks and I gotta get my balls broken by a guy that needs to use a thimble as cup.

Todd’s laughter became stifled as Mortimer Knightingale connected with a verbally lethal blow.  Todd rose from his seat and cricked his neck as he turned towards the PRIME wrestler sitting in chair.

TODD:  Are you mocking me?

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  Hey there Teeny Weenie, back the fuck up before you get hurt.

DR. WIGGY:  Todd, please sit down….

TODD:  My.  Penis.  Is.  Not.  TEENY.

Todd was about to throw a punch but Dr. Wiggy and Ned intervened and began holding Todd back as Frank Pastore pulled Mortimer from the chair.   Tiffany, who was apparently feeling a little frisky at all the violence that was bubbling over because she stood on her chair and began screaming.

TIFFANY:  FIGHT!  FIGHT!   DO IT!

Frank Pastore channeled his inner Secret Service Agent and proceeded to quickly and expeditiously dragged Mortimer out of the office.   Serendipitously, the elevator doors opened and Frank shoved Mortimer inside and pushed a button for the lobby.   The light muzak sounds of “Don’t You Forget About Me” by Simple Minds played.

FRANK PASTORE:  What the hell, man?!

Mortimer Knightingale could not help but laugh at the whole circumstance.

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  What?

FRANK PASTORE:  Mister Gamble had you going to this guy for a reason.

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  Fuck that slimy prick.

FRANK PASTORE:  He saved your ass, don’t you forget that.

There was truth in that statement.  If it had not been for the strings pulled and the bribery, maybe Mortimer would be sitting in a county jail instead of riding in the elevator with Gamble Goon #1.   Mortimer provided a reluctant nod acknowledging these facts.

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:   I know.  But let’s just be transient here.  This is a power move.  He don’t give two shits about my mental accruity.  The only reason he wants this is because he’s afraid I might toss his ass outta that ring at Culture Shock.  No, he wants to fuckin’ neuter me like a fuckin’ poodle just so he can toss my ass out the second my back is turned.

FRANK PASTORE:  To which you will say “It was a pleasure sharing that ring with you, Mister Gamble”.

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  Or, I say “My deepest apologies, Mister Gamble, when I hurled you outta that ring, I mistook you for Abe Eats-Shits.  Honest mistake.”

FRANK PASTORE:  They look—-

DING!  The elevator doors opened revealing the lobby.  Men and women wearing business suits were coming, going, or standing and waiting.   Frank Pastore grabbed Mortimer by the arm and began pulling him towards the double doors leading to the street.

FRANK PASTORE:  They look nothing alike.

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  He touches Kohime with any inappropriateness, I will fuck the other side of face up.

FRANK PASTORE:  Get over yourself.   She doesn’t want anything to do with you.  You made this bed, you’re a pariah because of you.  So, you’re gonna go out there and win the ALIAS Championship and then the next night, you are gonna do all the heavy lifting.  You’re gonna make this battle royal the easiest victory in Tony Gamble’s storied, Hall of Fame career.  Doing so would show the boss how adored he really is.   

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  Yeah, well, he ain’t bein’ called a Dick—-

FRANK PASTORE:  Shut up.   You came to him.  He could have tossed you aside but he didn’t do that did he?  He took you in.  

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:   So, what?  I’m just supposed to focus all my attention on Angelo Luchadoray or Darin Douchbaggery or that Flamber Genie French fuck and just allow him to throw me out?

FRANK PASTORE:  It would be a good way to show your loyalty.   Maybe you don’t have to go through so many hoops.

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  Other than Kohime, who, lets face it, may not even make it to that battle royale when I’m done with her because of her fuckwit fans and their emotional bullyin’ tactics.  But, if she does, it ain’t my problem.  I’ll let other people deal with her, other than that, I owe nothin’ to nobody.  As far as I’m concerned, they can all go fuck themselves.  Ned Colton, Nate Reform, Mushigaga, Tyler Best, the whole fuckin’ lot of ‘em.   And if comes down to me and Tony G?  Let’s just see what happens.

Frank Pastore tilted his head and nodded at Mortimer, this was the best reaction he was going to get, there was no sense in pushing it.  Tony Gamble gave him his marching orders and, as far as Frank was concerned, he did a good enough job under the circumstances.   At least that is what he told himself as he was still unclear on what he was supposed to do other than bring Mortimer to an anger management meeting.

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  I’ve been thinkin’, maybe I need a nickname like the Minotaur or the Wolf.

FRANK PASTORE:  Eh, the whole “Knightingale” thing makes everyone thinks of birds.  You don’t want to crossbreed.  What’s wrong with the Mori Mauler?   Mister Gamble was pleased with it when he thought of it.

MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE:  Fuckin’ prick.  What about “The Gentleman ” Mortimer Knightingale.

FRANK PASTORE:  You hit a chick.  The Gentlemen thing loses all credibility.

Mortimer Knightingale and Frank Pastore walked down the street arguing and debating the proper nickname for Mortimer, alas, they were not able to come to an agreement.  With each step, Mortimer felt something when it came to Frank, what was it?  Was there mutual respect blossoming between them?  Mortimer felt it but knew that deep down, when it came down to a choice, Frank would choose Tony Gamble ten out of ten times.  

Mortimer Knightingale knew his reputation was tarnished.  His peers did not respect him.  Happiness has always eluded him.  But maybe, just maybe, winning the Alias Championship and the battle royal would give him the exposure he deserved.  He would show he was not some nobody.  He would be ignored no longer.   As despised as he was, he would not need someone to love him….he would just need two massive, almost impossible victories at “Culture Shock” and then…..

…..He would be a somebody.

…..Somebody with respect.