I don't usually answer my phone. I hate it. I understand it's an absolute societal necessity to carry one, but I'll get shot before I answer a call from a number that I don't recognize. Fuck your pledge drive. Fuck your debt collection for someone that gave up this number five years ago. Fuck you for trying to get me to wrestle "#OneNightOnly!" in your shit bag, flea ridden, carnival ground federation.

Leave me a fucking message.

SILVER: Your phone is ringing.

RAVEN: I'm aware.

The phone buzzes gently on the table between us, each of us slumped into opposite sides of a booth in some hole-in-the-wall dive bar. Hollywood may be glitz and glamour, but there's more of these spots than you'd imagine.

SILVER: Answer it.

RAVEN: Suck a bleeding dick.

The phone continues to buzz. Jeremy hoists himself up to look at the call display. He's hammered. We both are. The "Peter Gilmour" press conference hadn't gone the way either of us had hoped it would. In fact, I'm worried I may have come out looking worse than when I went in. I have no idea how I became the scapegoat in this whole thing, but Jack Daniels was there to comfort me when it was over.

SILVER: No number. Think it's one of Jack Cain's burners? He tried calling you when you were on stage.

RAVEN: I don't fucking know, maybe. Jack can wait, I'm sure he'll understand. I already got the piss beat out of me this afternoon, I'm not in the mood to shoot the shit with the guy that's gonna try and kill me this weekend.

SILVER: He's not the type to call and gossip. It might be important. He might need help.

RAVEN: Are you kidding me? He's the toughest mother fucker on the roster, present company excluded. He doesn't need anyone's help. It's not like he's laying bloodied in the middle of a cemetery right now or anything.

The phone stops buzzing. Peace. Quiet. I feel my eyelids begin to flutter, but before they fall shut I see Jeremy eyeing me uneasily. I sigh and sit up in the booth, my jeans squeaking loudly on the plastic/foam cushion.

RAVEN: What? What's your fucking deal, Jeremy?

SILVER: Just a bad feeling. I don't know. You haven't been able to get in touch with Robbie Bourbon, Jack Cain can't get to you... the Mother Fuckers just got made to look like conniving fucks in front of the social media media... not a good day... not a good day...

He lays down in the booth, the beer finally winning the battle over the super agent. The phone buzzes again on the table, but a short burst. It's a voicemail. I reach over and pick it up, turning to Jeremy as I do so.

RAVEN: Should we listen to the message?

He doesn't say anything. He's out cold, the pussy. I stare down at the cell phone, the "new message" notification blinking up at me. Before I can do anything the waitress stumbles over to the booth. She wears ripped pantyhose to hide her varicose veins and the stink of a twelve hour shift. She's miserable, she wants to go home.

WAITRESS: Can I get you boys anything else?

RAVEN: I'll take some more coffee, please.

WAITRESS: No food? Your friend looks like he's dead. How long are you planning on just hanging out here?

I fish around in my pocket for my wallet and pull it out, peeling a $50 bill from inside and handing it to her.

RAVEN: How about you take this, and brew a fresh pot. When it's finished, bring it over to me and then you don't have to check on us the rest of the night. Focus on other tables, do a crossword, take a fucking nap for all I care. If I need anything, I'll go to the counter.

WAITRESS: Are... are you sure?

RAVEN: Take the money, girl. We're good here.

She grabs the fifty and makes her way to the coffee maker behind the counter without another word. I groan and tilt my head back, the whiskey and emotional toll of the day already wearing on me. I lift the cell phone to my ear, and play my voicemails. Just as Jeremy was worried about, it's Jack Cains voice that greets me.

"Jim? Jack again. Saw the shit you took over Gilmour..."

His voice is muffled as he struggles to speak through swollen lips, and I can hear him pause to spit blood through his teeth. Something happened. I feel my heart skip a beat as I realize he may have needed my help and I let him down. The room begins to spin around me, the air growing hot and humid as I try to inhale.

I need to puke.

I need to get outside.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Click.

"If you have this number, you know who this is. I can't talk."

Click.

BEEEEP!

RAVEN: For fucks sake, man... that's your voicemail? Why are you so angry? Who is it you desperately need a hug from? Look, I'm sorry I didn't answer when you called. I fucked up, no excuse. I don't know what went down, but I'm hoping it's over now. Nothing personal, but as tough as you are it doesn't seem like you can take much more. Don't sweat the Gilmour stuff. I appreciate the support, but at the end of the day it's a story everyone will forget about by the time the pay per view comes around. I don't need you or Robbie taking any bullets over it, if the XWF wants me to be their whipping boy, fuck 'em. I'm the highest paid whipping boy they've ever heard of. On the subject of the press conference though, I think-

"You have reached the limit of this recording. Thank you."

Click.

*Dial Tone*

RAVEN: Are you fucking kidding me? What dog shit service plan is this mother fucker with, Boost Mobile?

Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Click.

"If you have this number, you know who this is. I can't talk."

Click.

BEEEEP!

RAVEN: Yeah, you've got to change providers, that was notably shorter than the message you left me. Anyways, I was saying, I'm glad you saw the press conference... I wanted to talk to you about that. Don't take anything I said personally, they had me cornered and I was trying to change topics. I don't WANT to hurt you Jack. I don't WANT to add another loss to your record, or test how tough you are by punishing you until you're finished. I will if I have to, but I want you to know it's nothing personal. I like you, Jack. I like having a bad ass like you watching my back, if for no other reason than I know we'll go down swinging together until our final breaths. I wish I hadn't said what I said, it came across the wrong way, and now that I think back on it I-

"You have reached the limit of this recording. Thank you."

Click.

*Dial Tone*

RAVEN: I swear to god, I'm gonna stab this mother... wooooosa... deep breaths.

Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Click.

"If you have this number, you know who this is. I can't talk."

Click.

BEEEEP!

RAVEN: You know what, Jack? I changed my mind, I'm kicking the shit out of you on Saturday and it's all because your bull shit black ops phone won't let me record a message longer than 60 seconds! Fuck you! Fuck your duster! Fuck your hair cut, and your ruggedly handsome jaw line! Fuck your Television title reign, and fuck... I don't know man, I'm drunk. We're cool. I hope you're not dead somewhere. Get a better phone. See you at Savage.

Click.