Second floor – Perfumery, Wigs and lady’s hats, Third floor – Origins of human violence and crushing despair

I try to conduct my affairs from my car.  And I don’t really get any personal calls.  Some people have no problem spewing their business out in front of everyone backstage.  Last night I heard a guy asking his doctor “is it cancer?”   

The way he said it was chilling.  It wasn’t the tone of someone who wasn’t afraid.  Nor was it the tone of a macho man being macho.  The only way I can explain it is this.  I’ve never been in combat.  It seems pretty unlikely that I ever will be.  But his voice asking about cancer I imagine is what a rifleman sounds like after they’d been told they’re going into the line of fire.  They know it’s about to get bad but there’s no other options.  That’s what’s happening.  Get ready to fight for your life.

I’ve been dreaming about the guy with the denim vest lately.  He scurried away with all the other cockroaches so I didn’t hurt him too bad.  But it wasn’t for lack of trying.  And probably he was just a mouthy asshole.  I don’t know that he had anything to do with what was going on there.   

In the old days one time I hit a guy in the head with a brick and robbed him.  I don’t want to get into the details, but I felt like he deserved it.  There’s a part of me that says if someone is doing bad things, it’s okay to hurt them.  That they have it coming.

How do I get rid of that voice?  I poked around online but all of that stuff is about anger management.

What if you’re not angry when you want to hurt people?   Where’s the guidance for that?  I can’t be the only person like this right?

Someone said in the comments the other day that I need to have more fun.  That you go crazy if you don’t let loose every once in a while.  Since I’ve been in Texas lately, I bought a cowboy hat for 8 bucks.  I’ve been wearing that lately.  I guess it’s fun. 

Van world order 4 life

I’m back in Kim’s apartment and I’ve dedicated myself to cyber-stalking 42561.  She used to wrestle under the name Golden Grace on account of her real name is Grace Holden.  Maybe.  According to the internet my real name is Amy Lee.  So.   

She has more of a presence online than I do, but a lot of it is about being a “van lifer” rather than wrestling.  That Promaster I was leaning against has been modified more (note to self, look up a celebrity that has had a lot of cosmetic surgery and put that name here, it will be hilarious). It has a kitchen, queen-size bed, and a fully-operational shower.  In a van!  And I could have the same set up for a mere 70 grand.   

There was enough information for me to come up with a profile of a performer who takes tough bumps, especially for a woman, but never seems to miss any time for injury.  Sound familiar?  For an hour or so, I became enamored with the idea that we were long lost sisters.  I tried to imagine if I grew my hair out and wasn’t all scarred up how much we would look alike.

But she’s from Ireland so we’re probably not long lost sisters.  Or maybe she’s from Australia.  There’s conflicting information about that, but she’s not from here for sure.  She doesn’t talk much but I found one video of her cutting a promo and her accent was thick whatever it was.   

Other than that I found out she’s been arrested a couple times for possession and once for aggravated assault.  And maybe some other times.   

My plan is to get booked on the same shows as her and annoy her into being my magic buddy.  You say stalking but I say . . . well stalking, but it’s okay in this instance.

In the 90s they called Barry Windham the Stalker for a few months. In theory because he was stalking people in the sense of being a hunter. We need to update that for the new era. Bring his nephew Bo Dallas back as the Stalker – only his deal is harassing people online and sending them unsolicited sexts. That’s a solid gold idea people.

Friendship is magic 2 – Magic friendship is friendship magic

I worked my last show before heading back to Tallahassee last night in York.  I thought I heard that York was where the Revolutionary War started but I didn’t see any statues or plaques about it so maybe not.  Seems like the kind of thing a city would make a big deal about.   

The show sucked.  My opponent sucked.  I didn’t get paid.  It was the best booking I’ve had in a while.   

The second match of the night featured a woman called 42561.  Her gimmick is that she had been in prison so long she forgot her name and just remembered her number.  She wears prison orange but with the top converted into a belly shirt.  Which they probably don’t allow in prison.

From what I saw, she’s a good worker.  Her opponent was not.  They were on the ropes in the corner trying to do . . . . something.  Whatever they were trying to do, it wasn’t working.  Looked more like something you’d see at a live sex show than a wrestling match to me.   Although it’s a fine line sometimes I admit.

The end result was her opponent bailed out of the move like a bitch and 42561 fell with her feet tangled in the ropes and broke her ankle.  No one can tell me she didn’t.  I saw her foot pointing the wrong way.   

Not only did she finish the match (quickly) but she limped backstage on her own.  The good news (?) for her was no one there cared about her ankle.  But I saw what she did.  She sat on a folding chair for a good half hour massaging it and mumbling to herself.  Then she got up and walked away and was fine.   


I have no idea how the etiquette of meeting another magic person is supposed to go.  The best plan I could come up with was waiting by her Ram Promaster in the parking lot and then when she walked up say “You can do magic right?  I know because I can too.” 

She drove away without saying anything.  But I know about her now.  I’m coming for you 42561.  We’re going to become magic friends. We’ll go an adventures like . . . you know . . . those two women . . .  who go on adventures.  Rizzoli and Isles?  Is that it?  Is that the only female buddy duo?

Hard to believe but I actually get some information for once

Turns out that you can have visitors in rehab on occasion.  Even if I had been “home” at the time though, I doubt I could have come up with a reason to tag along.  I’m not a very good liar.  I casually asked Evan if his friend had said anything “weird” when he told me he had visited his pal but he wasn’t interested in talking.  He just mumbled something about “junkie hallucinations” and changed the subject. 

I really wanted to know what was going on, so I decided to lean on my good friend the Atlanta detective. Since she usually doesn’t answer my calls and she never returns my messages and since I was going to be in the Atlanta area for a show, my plan was to ambush her IRL. 

She wouldn’t like that but I felt like I needed to regain some power in this “relationship”.  If she wants to continue getting my help she needs to lighten the fuck up.  The problem is after spending several hours on the phone with various general information and public information lines, I was told that there was no such detective in the Atlanta PD. 

I was at iHOP contemplating what this might mean after the show when she wandered in.  She was wearing a red leather jacket with a mesh shirt and a Johnny Depp-load of chintzy necklaces and bracelets.  She was slick with sweat and seemed slightly out of breath.  No, not out of breath, more like breathy? 

She flopped down in the chair across from me.  She seemed slightly amused instead of her standard scowl of thinly suppressed murderous anger.  I asked her if this is how she always dresses when she’s off duty and she loudly and theatrically shushed me and then said he was undercover with a giggle. 

This is the nastiest most unpleasant woman I’ve ever met and there she was giggling?  I found that very unsettling. 

I asked to see her badge and after she showed it to me, I told her I had contacted the department and they said they never heard of her.  She banged the table loudly and said that of course they said that.  In these times they can’t be giving out information about their soldiers on the front lines.  Need to know only.  She leaned forward slightly and said “it’s a war out there you know, and it’s not going good”.  But she said it with a dreamy smile. 

I asked her if she was on Ecstasy and she said that I was looking for her and there she was so what did I want?  She said it while she frowned down at one of her many chains and then struggled to get it over her head. 

I told her about the incident in Havana and asked if she could get access to the report or some records that might clue me into what was going on there.  She leaned back and propped her arms on the chair in an awkward way that really popped her tits at me and said that it would be no problem.  She grinned and said “The door swings both ways”. 

I had no expectation that she would remember this conversation or that she would help me if she did, but a few days later when I was driving into Chattanooga she called and told me to meet her.  What’s a four-hour drive between old pals like us? 

The meeting took place at a rest stop, but she had a bag of Hattie B’s Hot Chicken and some MGD tallboys, so it wasn’t all bad.  She was back to looking at me like a half-squashed cockroach that was twitching on the floor.  When I mentioned that she’s much nicer when she’s stoned, she came at me hard.   

I’m starting to figure her out.  She explodes and yells but it doesn’t mean anything.  She’s like one of those yappy little dogs.  When she does actually shoot me in the kneecap, there won’t be any carrying on and shouting.  When she stopped screaming, she told me not to tell anyone about what I think I saw.  Who the hell would I tell anyway? People are weird.

Once all the angry posturing was complete, she told me she had pulled some information on my Havana beat-down and that as soon as she saw the details she knew what was up.  She said that magic people LIKE ME snatch junkies so they can siphon the stress they’re going through in withdrawal to power their spells.  They lock them up and give them just enough meth or Special K or whatever to keep them tweaking.    

I told her I didn’t do magic like that.  I told her I wouldn’t even know how to do magic like that.  She sneered and asked how I did do magic.  I told her to give me her hand.  Surprisingly she did.  Hesitantly, like she was going to grab an angry rattler, but she reached out. 

You may remember from one of my magic posts that everyone has a little magic in them.  Some people more than others.  Being a mage as I was taught is about learning to store more energy inside yourself like a battery.  Not taking it from pain or fear or suffering. 

The detective had more magic in her than most people.  Surprising.  I drew some of that energy out of her and did a simple little trick to make colors dance across my fingers.  She gasped, not in surprise, but something else.  I don’t know what.  I guess it was a weirdly intimate moment.   

She jerked her hand away and was ready to lay into me, but the words died on her lips and she just held her hand to her chest.  “That’s how I do magic” I said as I reached for another piece of chicken. 

She told me never to do that again.  I said I wouldn’t dream of it.  I asked her if she would tell me what happened with the diary girl.  She reacted with true hostility, not bluster, and told me she was “somewhere you’ll never find her”. 

I asked her what she was so afraid would happen if we met.  You know in movies when someone who’s clearly scared shitless proclaims “I’m not afraid of anything” and it seems cheesy and fake? 

That happens in real life.   

I came here to tell you about the rhythms of the universe

I detoured to meet up with Josh/Dan/Mustafa in Cincinnati.  His drug/sex/music cult was having a meet and greet and I wanted to see what it was all about.   

The guy giving the seminar definitely looked like he was into drugs but is not someone I would touch with a 10-foot sex pole.  His music credentials remain unknown.  He looked more like a roadie than a musician to me.  You know the type.

Far be it from me to tell anyone how to run their cult, but I think it’s pretty standard cult practice to have the recruitment done by the more attractive members.  Why did they have this hairball as their frontman?  The Children of God knew how to do it, their whole pitch was to send out their most bangable members to sex people up and convince them to join.  Huh, I just realized that’s probably why my cult never took off.  That’s stings a little.

In the opening pitch the roadie said “music is the oldest and most powerful form of magic in the world”.  I asked him if he meant that literally or if he was being poetic.  Like how people say the heart is the strongest muscle in the body but they’re really talking about determination and not giving up rather than the muscles that make the heart go.

He smiled but I could tell it was covering up annoyance.  He didn’t answer me either.  I guess there is a story in the bible about someone playing a harp to kill a magician or something.  It wasn’t clear to me what happened.  I can see how you could use everyone singing in unison as a type of magic focus. Really anything that focuses people’s attention will work and singing is something people like. 

As the roadie continued with his spiel, I had other questions.  I was trying to get to the bottom, is this real magic or bullshit?  After a couple more interruptions, I was asked to shut up or leave.  But in a nicer way.  Sort of.   

So I don’t know if these people do magic or if they’re just a boring normal cult that takes your money and enslaves you. 

Afterwards Josh/Dan/Mustafa was clearly annoyed that I had embarrassed him in front of his cult friends.  I want to make a joke about how I’m so unlikable that even a cult doesn’t want me but cults are actually fairly selective in their recruitment.  They’re usually looking for a very specific kind of person.   They don’t want just anyone. 

One of those old sitcoms with no plot had a joke because the bald guy was mad because the cult wouldn’t try to brainwash him.  But it’s not like that.  They don’t want everyone.  Sorry bald guy.   

Cuz you can’t, you won’t, and you don’t stop

Evan stopped by the apartment to ask me what had happened.  I told him I was sorry but I didn’t find his friend.  He thanked me for getting his friend home.  I’m not a very good liar.  He said that his friend was in rehab now.  It’s too bad that you can’t have visitors in those places.  I would have liked to have talked to him about what was going on. 

I’ve got some bookings coming up and I’m excited to get back on the road for a while.  I’ve been in this place for too long.  Everything feels out of balance.  It’s not healthy to stay in the same place.

I listened to a podcast about a boxer that won 6 fights and lost more than 50.  For every champion in boxing there are 30 other guys who went 0-6 or 2-14 and then quit.  The story of this podcast was why a guy with fifty losses keeps going when most people give up. 

They interviewed him and he talked about how he was basically homeless for his 20-year career, living in hotels.  Just going from fight to fight.  He never had a manager or a trainer or anyone helping him, it was just him.  He kept going because no one could ever knock him out and whenever he had a chance to train, he won or at least did well. 

One of his 6 wins was on TV against a guy who was 18-0 and was supposed to fight for a championship next.

Boxing and wrestling are similar but different enough that you can’t really compare them.  That being said, listening to the guy talk about being on the road and being all on his own and knowing he was probably going to get his ass kicked but not giving up resonated with me.  Obviously.

Of course at the end they mentioned that DNA evidence resulted in him being put away for murdering a friend of his in the 90’s.  So we’re not exactly the same. 

Hello, my name is Amy

Someday I’d like to have a car that doesn’t end up with bloodstains all over the driver’s seat.  Heck, let’s shoot for the stars and make that a car without blood on any of the seats. 

What I did was stupid for several reasons.  Remember how I told you how magic works.  That there’s a finite amount of energy that you can store and use to do it?  I didn’t have enough in the tank to heal myself after getting a 12-man pounding (which sounds like the name of a porn).  So I dragged myself back to Kim’s apartment feeling every bit of getting the shit kicked out of me.  This is probably what normal wrestlers feel like all the time.

What I should have done is waited until I had enough magic to heal myself fully.  But I couldn’t, as soon as I could heal myself a little bit I did, which just made it that much harder to build up enough energy to do anything substantial.  I couldn’t help myself.  It was like being thirsty and having a bottle of water in your hand but trying not to drink it.

I was so fucked up I had to cancel a show, which brought Kim around.  He said that he figured for me to cancel a show, he’d find me with both legs broken at the very least.  He asked me if my boyfriend beat me up.  We had a good laugh at that.

He brought me some gross soup that he said was Italian and would make me feel better.  Maybe the idea is that it’s so bad you pretend you feel better just to get out of having to eat any more of it.  It tasted like rock salt and sweat.

While I was recuperating, I saw that I have a Wikipedia stub now.  It says that my real name is Amy Lee.  I kind of like that.  It’s simple but it sounds tough in a way.  I was thinking about going with that but then I saw that Amy Lee is the name of an emo rock lady.  I watched a video where she whine-sings and walks around a trailer park with wings on. 

So no.  I am not Amy Lee.  I’ll let her keep that one.

What hurt worst was the disrespect. J/K the pain was much worse.

I couldn’t sleep.  The idea that someone might be held against their will at that place was messing with me.  So I came up with a plan.  A really stupid plan. 

I drove out to Havana.  When I was a couple blocks away from the club I called 911 and said that a woman was being beaten to death out front.  I gave them the address a couple times to make sure.  I read that the average response time to a 911 call is 10 minutes.  But that’s a national average, what is it in Havana Florida? 

I waited a few minutes and then drove up to the club.  I had enough goodwill that I was allowed to join the party outside.  I’m not sure why I felt like I needed to wait for an “instigating incident” but I did.  At one point I got up and someone had taken my seat.  Denim vest did that old bit where you brush your mouth and say “let me clear you off a place to sit down”. 

I laughed along with everyone else and then while I was laughing I clapped denim vest in the ear.  Which sounds silly but it isn’t.  It’s an old wrestler’s trick.  They like to tell you that an ear slap ruptures the eardrum.  That’s bullshit.  It’s very hard to actually rupture an eardrum.  Whacking someone hard in the ear is just a good way to fuck them up. 

I kept laughing as I yanked denim vest off his lawn chair and slammed his head into the rear bumper of a VW Kombi van a couple of times.  It’s funny, just the other day I was thinking how stupid it is in movies and shows when the main guy provokes a fight for the purpose of getting their ass kicked.  What kind of dumbass writing is that?

I assumed that making fun of denim vest was fine but kicking his ass would be frowned upon.  I assumed right.  I managed to buy maybe thirty seconds by getting between the Kombi van and a 2008 Avenger that looked like more of a piece of shit than my Sedona. 

After those 30 seconds they dragged me out and went to work on me.   It was another 30 seconds before I heard sirens.  Which doesn’t seem like a long time, but tell you what, take a hammer and hit yourself in the head with it for 30 seconds continuously and then talk to me about how long 30 seconds is.  Once the sirens got close everyone scattered and cars were peeling out like crazy. 

One fucker decided to dump his spit cup on me before he took off.  I was a bloody mess when the cops rolled up in their cruiser.  Which is when happens when you get gang-stomped for 45 seconds.  I guess they were Florida state police?  I don’t know how it all works. 

I dumped a cooler full of ice and melted water over my head to cut the fog a little bit.  I told the cops that my buddy owed these people money and I thought they had snatched him.  I came to try and broker a deal with them and they kicked my ass instead. 

I told them that I thought my friend might be locked up inside but they wouldn’t go in without a warrant.  I don’t know if that’s legit or if they were being assholes.  A couple more cruisers showed up, some that said Havana PD and some that just said Sheriff.  Law enforcement is confusing. 

Around 4 AM a woman showed up and said they could go in.  I guess she was an attorney with the state?  She wasn’t nearly as pretty as any of the DAs on Law and Order.  They found a metal door that had a slot at the bottom to put food through like in prison.  They could see through there slot that there was a person inside.  They were non-responsive. 

It was another two hours before the fire department cut the door off with some kind of crazy saw.  It was like a robot arm with a spinning blade.  I never seen anything like it before.  Inside was Evan and Freddie’s friend laying on the ground zonked out of his mind. 

I told the cops that wasn’t the buddy I was looking for.  I “checked” my phone and saw that during all the excitement, the friend I was looking for had texted and he was fine.  What a crazy coincidence huh?

You’d think an alien wizard would be better at this

Last night a guy came up to me after my show and explained that the reason I can do magic is became I’m an alien hybrid.  You see what happened was back in the day, humans were slaves to the Atlanteans and Lemurians.  Atlantis gets all the press but there was another island called Lemuria where alien lords lived too. 

Different aliens came and hybrided up some people so they could do magic.  Purestrain humans can’t do magic of course.  The Lemurians and Atlanteans knew about magic but they thought it was weak sauce so they didn’t pay attention.  That was a mistake.  The human-other alien hybrids did some big time magic and fucking sank their islands.  So they had to get back on their spaceships and go away.    

I let this lunatic tell me about this because he took me to Shake Shack.  Later when I was driving back to Kim’s apartment, I thought that it’s not really right for me to make fun of this guy.  People think I’m crazy because I claim I can do magic.  Who am I to judge him?  I have proof though.  That’s the difference now that I think about it.

One of my readers (who probably doesn’t think I’m an alien) suggested that the way to figure out what’s going on at the club where I think Even’s friend is being held would be to hire a PI.  I thought this was a great idea.  But after calling a few PIs, I found out that 87 dollars doesn’t get you far with them. 

I called up a couple female wrestlers. You know the kind I mean.  I asked if they wanted to try and sexy their way into the club.  They were not interested.  At all.  As a longshot, I called up a guy I barely know who wrestles a Boneyard and works as a bounty hunter.  My offer of 87 dollars and the pitch that “some of these guys probably have warrants” did not convince the Boneman to drive 18 hours from Amarillo.  Although he did explain to me that warrants and bounties are not the same thing. 

I even called up my detective pal in Atlanta.  She hung up on me before I finished my first sentence.  I know if I tell Evan and Frankie, they’re going to grab some of their wrestling pals and go there and think they can just kick ass and take names.  Wrestlers are like that.  I know no good will come of that. 

I wish I was smarter.  The only thing I can think to do is follow denim vest and say that I was busting his balls because I actually like him.  But the idea of me seducing anyone is laughable.  And what would even be the point?  Just to have him bring me to the club?

Leg(work) day

I used my finding spell on Evan and Freddie’s friend.  It’s not like remote viewing or clairvoyance.  When it works, I just know where I need to go.  You ever see one of those little weird buildings that could be an auto body shop or an exterminator or a place saying they can fix your phone screen?  But then you find out it’s actually some kind of bar/club?  A place like that in Havana (not Cuba) is where my spell told me to go.

An odd place to be at 8 in the morning but no big deal right?  I had a feeling that wasn’t the case.  Instead of telling Evan and Frankie, I drove out there.  There wasn’t much to see from the outside.  I was playing over various break-in scenarios in my mind when I realized it’s a fucking club.  Just wait until it’s open and go in.  I watch too many action movies.  In real life you don’t break into places.

I did the spell again 12 hours later and it directed me to the same place.  I took another drive out there during “business” hours.  There were a half dozen cars and a couple bikes parked on the “lawn”.  What do you call it when there’s no grass?  Just property I guess.  People were sitting around drinking beer and listening to some awful music.  Swamp metal or some shit. 

I walked up and said that my car had broken down and my phone was dead.  It wasn’t a very good plan.  Someone sitting outside just said they’d call a tow truck.  My idea was to be invited in to look around but there probably isn’t even an old phone inside.  While I was waiting, I asked them what this place was.  They said it was a private club.  When I asked how you get invited to a private club, a dude with a rat-tail and a denim vest said “sodomy” and slapped me on the ass. 

I picked up an empty beer bottle and said “Great, pop those knickers off and let’s jam”.  That got a lot of laughs.  I’m the last person who should be trying to infiltrate any kind of social hierarchy but I know how these groups operate.  I knew right then that denim vest was a hanger-on and therefore an acceptable target for abuse.

Identifying and whipping the designated whipping boy doesn’t get you “in” but it’s a good icebreaker.  They deigned to let me hang around waiting for the tow truck.  Occasionally denim vest would try to come back at me but I always turned it around on him.  Not because I’m great at that sort of thing but because he was so inarticulate and thin-skinned that it was easy.  The madder he got the more his “friends” laughed it up. 

My last gambit when the tow truck showed up was to ask if I could use the bathroom.  I was told to use the bushes. 

Anyone reading this is probably thinking “why didn’t you just ask where Evan’s friend was?”  That would be the logical thing to do.  But I don’t think logic is what’s needed here.

I just have a feeling.