Title: A Little Bit Of Inner Turmoil [REV 245 vs. Jacob McKail]
Featuring: Lance Marshall
Date: 4/28/11
Location: Shanghai, China

I should have known better. I really should have known better. If I had taken just five seconds to think about what I was doing, I would have realized that there was not a single damn thing about the choice I was making that screamed out “hey, this is a good decision”…

…it’s just that it didn’t seem like all that bad an idea at the time, you know? I’m not exactly the most timid of eaters back home. I’ve eaten at every kind of restaurant you can imagine from gourmet dining to total fleapit. I’ve had food from all over the map, eaten street food out of trucks without a second thought. Hell, I’ve wolfed down shit from the stalls in Ginza that would have most westerners reaching for their barf bags from the smell alone.

And all it takes to do this to me is a couple of shrimp?

---

God, whatever the hell is going on, I just want it to stop. My stomach feels like someone’s set it to liquefy. It’s been churning constantly ever since we got back from the party and even the thought of trying to get anything down brings on a new wave of cramping. I’d barely managed to reach the bathroom the first time before I started spewing my guts out. Luckily, I’d managed to confine my output to the toilet bowl.

Well, most of it anyway.

Projectile vomiting. Now there’s something I haven’t done in a while. The last time was probably when I was still drinking so I probably wasn’t even aware I was doing it.

And no, none of what I just said I say with any sense of pride.

I managed to clean up as best as possible, using what seemed like every available square of toilet paper in the room as I hunched down by the toilet, waiting for the strength to come back to my limbs. All that was left at the moment was the slight smell of puke in the air. Couldn’t do much about that, though; the room had nothing to speak of in the way of air fresheners and the AC was pumping out the smell as fast as it could manage.

I should be grateful for that smell, really. It’s probably the only thing keeping me conscious enough from plunging headfirst into the toilet, my hands gripping on to the edge of the bowl for dear life. I keep telling myself that if I wait a little longer, just a few more minutes, I’ll feel better enough so that I can make it to…

…make it to the…

…Oh shit, not agai-

---

See, when it comes to potential career choices, I know that what I do for a living is really damn weird. Standing in the middle of a ring half-dressed, facing off against another guy (or girl), trying your best to knock seven shades of shit out of them…if that doesn’t seem just a little strange to you, I’d love to know what your definition of strange is. Hell, I can’t imagine how Zach is gonna handle this if they ever have career day at school…

(“My dad’s a lawyer.” “My dad works in a bank.” “Well, my dad can beat up everybody else’s dad.”)

But, weird as it is, I like it. It’s let me do a lot of traveling, meet some interesting people, get up to more adventure in a week than most people have in their entire lives…hell, if you can get past the people wanting to kill you part of things (and in my line of work, that’s not just a metaphorical fear), it’s actually pretty rewarding.

And it sure as hell beats doing a nine to five in an office somewhere.

When it comes to this business, like any other, there is what you’d call “occupational hazards” and “occupational realities”. “Occupational hazards” are those things that are probably dangerous and could result in some serious injury; but you knew they were there when you signed up for the job and you figure you pretty much just have to deal with them. Stuff like getting hit in the head with a steel chair or getting choked from behind with a chain by some jumped up Sons of Anarchy reject, that kinda thing.

“Occupational realities”, on the other hand, are the little things attached to the job that you probably didn’t give much thought to when you signed on. They gotta be done, though, and if you’re doing your job right, the top brass will usually decide that you’re the man to do it. Stuff like autograph signings, meet and greets, public appearances. Press the flesh, shake some hands, kiss a few babies and maybe kiss the ass of a local dignitary or two. Gotta keep up the corporate image, after all.

This is what I was doing on this particular afternoon in Shanghai instead of taking in the sights or seeing just how good the Chinese bootleg marker really was. A local minister of some sort…I want to say Sports and Activities but the afternoon is pretty much a blur…had thrown together a little gathering to welcome PRIME to Shanghai. There was a small group of PRIME folk there. Lisa Tyler was heading up the delegation, me, Dawkins being goofy and charming, Postal looked a little jittery, finally got to talk to Lindsay Troy for longer than two seconds, that was nice…

…and then there was the problem. The hook that had gotten a few folks to even agree to come to this little shindig in the first place. The lunch buffet.

---

See, when you make a living as a wrestler, food becomes way more of a concern than you would ever imagine. Especially when you’re one of the bigger guys on the roster. I think I’ve tried every brand of protein and meal replacement bar known to man. And yeah, I’ve done the whole “pack up Tupperware containers with chicken breasts and rice and bring it with you” thing more times than I can count. Most people who see the way I tend to eat assume it comes as part of being a guy my size. You spend hours in the gym, get plenty of sleep and bring your own food with you, right?

Well, they’re not entirely wrong. But that’s only part of the picture. The big reason why I try to be really careful about what I eat while I’m on the road is purely practical. The business we’re in, you have to be ready to step inside the ring at a moment’s notice. Even if you’re not scheduled to work, you can easily find yourself with a match just by pissing off the wrong person (or pissing off the right person). The last thing you want to do in that situation is tell someone that there’s no way you can do a match tonight because you have the drizzly shits due to eating the wrong kind of curry when the fed stopped in Mumbai. You have to be careful.

And it’s not like I shouldn’t have had some sort of a clue. Ever since the tragedy in Japan, I’d been hearing stories about how restaurants back in the States have had to cut back or even eliminate Japanese sourced seafood from their menus. Increased exposure to environmental toxins, all sorts of sludge seeping into the water around Japan because of the Tsunami. Not to mention that it’s likely that some of the fish have been nibbling on Soylent Green…

…and there goes my stomach again…

---

It didn’t take long for my stomach to let me know just how pissed off it was. Lindsay Troy was the first to point it out, saying that I looked a little green and maybe I should see the doctor. I shrugged it off, told her I was fine, that it was no big deal.

Of course, the fact that five minutes later I was struggling not to spew all over the sidewalk in front of the hotel kinda put the lie to that argument. The doc was a nice guy, in his 50’s or so, had this British accent when he spoke that I wasn’t expecting. Took him maybe five seconds to tell me that, yup, it was food poisoning. Good thing was that it didn’t look too bad so as long as I did what he said, it should keep me out of action for, oh, forty-eight hours tops.

Lisa Tyler immediately puts the kill order on my schedule for the next two days. I thank her as best I can. She waves it off, claiming it’s a purely business decision. I’m a valued asset and she needs me in one hundred percent condition. The fastest way to make that happen is by ensuring I get better quickly rather than forcing me to meet obligations I’m unable to fulfill. I point out that the business option ends up being the nice option this time around.

She just shrugs and calls it a coincidence. Then orders me not to come out of my room for the next two days.

I just about make it to the bathroom in my room before I lose control of my stomach again. Once the world stops spinning, I clean up as best I can and crawl back to bed. Before I can fall asleep, there’s a knock at my door. It’s room service with what looks like a care package: several bottles of bottled water, some antibiotics, a small box of crackers, a thermos and a seemingly random collection of English language magazines. And a note: Get better soon. LT.

I sign for the package and dig into my pocket for a tip. The waiter is barely out the door before I’m back in bed again. This time, there’s nothing to stop me as I slowly slip away into unconsciousness.

---

I wake up again a few hours later, not really sure what time it is. At least the bathroom doesn’t smell so bad anymore. I remember that I haven’t spoken to Lani and Zach yet today, haven’t thought about it since I saw the doctor. Thankfully, the laptop is still idling away where I left it on the desk. I walk over to it about as quickly as I can manage, getting Skype running and calling home. Lani answers on the third ring.

“Hey, baby, I’m glad you…whoa. What happened, honey?”

“Look that good, huh? Ate something I shouldn’t have at a little gathering today, doc says it’s food poisoning.”

“Oh lord, I remember what you were like when you had that bad takeout sushi. So, were we going for distance or accuracy this time?”

I laugh, despite myself and wince a little at how sore my sides feel. “Not funny. And it was accuracy this time.”

“For which I’m sure the staff was grateful. Now, listen, get some rest. Everything’s going fine here, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Is Zach around? I wanna say hi.”

“Sure, just a second.”

Lani calls off into the distance for Zach. I can hear him bounding into the room, can see his smile before I hear him speak.

“Hey, dad.”

We talk for a while about school and what his friend Adam’s birthday party was like (Zach’s verdict? “Totally awesome”) and whether or not it’s okay that he get the new Mortal Kombat game. I tell him it’s okay with me. After all, he’s seen more of my life in this business than I would have ever wanted him to; he knows too well what real violence is like. It’s hard to imagine that him having some video game character cut another character in half with the press of a few buttons is gonna do him any damage.

Besides, he’s promised he’ll show me how to do Noob Saibot’s second fatality. I can never get the moves right.

“Mom says you’re not feeling well so get better dad. I love you.”

“Love you too, champ. Night.”

The connection is cut and, just for a second, I can feel my heart drop along with my stomach. Then I make my way back to bed again.

---

A few more hours later. Had a few bottles of water and about half the thermos (which, in a very Jewish mother sort of way, was filled with what tasted like the best chicken soup in Shanghai). I’m sprawled out in bed, again; too wired to go to sleep and too tired to do anything else. CNN International is on in the background, slowly turning into background fuzz. Given that the lead story is some bullshit about Donald Trump demanding to see Obama’s birth certificate, it’s not that hard.

I’m staring at the ceiling, thinking, largely because it’s all I have the energy to do. It surprises me how much losing to Jacob McKail last week isn’t bothering me. It’s not like I’m happy about it, exactly. But I remember a time when it would have had me fuming, wanting to tear McKail’s head from his body and beat him into a bloody paste. Now, though…hell, I can take it for what it is. A loss, nothing more. I wasn’t on my game that night, McKail was. And when Daniels…

…oh yeah, Christian Daniels. When that piece of shit decided to stick his nose into my match…when he cost me that match…I can’t blame McKail. He just seized an opportunity. Wouldn’t expect anything better of him. But Daniels…

…oh yeah, that was a mistake. You get one chance to pull that kind of shit on me. You had it and you didn’t take me out for good. Big mistake. Trust me, I will be paying that mistake back in full.

I start falling back asleep again not too much later, thoughts of how I’m gonna stomp seven shades of shit out of Daniels still playing through my mind. And despite everything I’ve been through today, despite the projectile puking and the stomach set to puree and all of that…

…I fall asleep with a smile on my face.
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