Late Night, Drunk And Maudlin

~~~~

There's a point after the eighth beer that even the strongest man becomes a little maudlin. When you already feel like shit this is not a good thing.

Not that the two youngsters sitting in their booth sipping away at their one allowable beer were making him feel any better. Oh to be that young again that people still told you that you weren't allowed to drink. Bradshaw never took any notice of it even then, he drank the one drink that he was allowed and then had a few more. And woke up without a splitting headache like the one he was expecting tomorrow. But that was what youth gave you, the ability to bounce back from things.

Take that boy Charlie for instance, he'd forgive Shelton for beating him, these things happen, if you're in a tag team one of you is always the better wrestler. Being second best had never bothered Bradshaw, at least not as much as you would have expected.

Charlie would even eventually forgive Shelton for that stupid hair ruffling shit, which probably hurt worse than the loss did. Wounded pride takes ages to heal up. But that's what partners do; they forgive all the stupid things the other one does. All the times when one of you drinks all the beer or smokes all the cigars, when one of you drags the other into a fight the two of you can't win with his big mouth. Or the time you nearly get caught trying to prove that, yes, everything really is bigger in Texas. Ron forgave him all of those, and they were mostly stupider and more selfish than this last one. Because this time Bradshaw had a point and it was a damned good one. Neither of them were getting any younger and they had to start saving. What good would it do for both of them to be unemployed? Did Ron have any idea how hard it would be for two old jocks to get decent employment anywhere, never mind in wrestling where the has-been count was even higher than at the stock exchange? What could they do, go to TNA, bow down at Jarrett's altar, no thanks. The indies? The indies hated them.

The plan had been for them both to do their time till retirement, then for Ron to stay with the company, because he loved this game more than anything. Bradshaw would diversify his employment portfolio and do other things - that part of the plan was just coming into fruition. Then once enough money had been set aside, they'd buy a ranch down south somewhere, raise cattle, have as many beers and cigars as they wanted. Live the good life with some privacy at last.

Privacy, the one thing Bradshaw had lacked all day. It was hard to tell your lover that you were doing this for his own good in front of fifteen cameras, not without letting loose the secret the two of you had fought so hard to keep for all these years.

The plan would have worked too, he'd factored everything in, downturns in the stock market and what have you. He hadn't factored either of them getting sacked into the plan. But it should still have worked.

Was there any point carrying on with it now, because the dream only worked with the two of them.

That was something else youth had that he didn't have anymore, hope for the future, everything was full of bright possibilities; Bradshaw now saw only the dark pitfalls that were possible. Take Charlie and Shelton, they're all excited about the draft, thinking about what could happen and who might change brands. Or maybe they'd both be drafted to RAW. Neither of them even thought about the possibility that only one of them might be drafted to RAW, split up until such time as luck brought them back together.

Meanwhile that probability had been the only one in Bradshaw's mind since the moment he had heard about the draft. He and Ron and all the guys had been watching RAW in the back of an arena, when McMahon came out with it. Bradshaw must have blanched or something 'cause he remembered someone, probably Scotty, asking if he was all right. Inside his head his mind kept saying `keep it together, keep it together' over and over again, so he made a joke of it saying that the RAW guys always stiffed him over poker debts.

He had really needed the beer he'd had that night. He could remember the last draft and how he and Ron had been separated then. He'd made a right fool out of himself after the cameras went away that night. Maybe it had been the timing of the original draft; it had come right after Bradshaw first came up with his grand plan, and right when it all could have gone horribly wrong. It was probably
just fear, fear of having to go it alone in the ring and of coming up with things to do when he wasn't in the ring, even he couldn't drink beer and read the Wall Street Journal all the time.

He tried explaining it to Ron, but it all came out in that same whiny, snivelling tone that the public had now been introduced to. God, he hated it when he sounded like that. Ron sat there holding him, telling him it would be all right, they wouldn't be able to keep them separated for long. And as usual Ron was right.

Bradshaw thought that night was one of his lowest points. But tonight, tonight was worse. And he hadn't had a chance to explain himself, that bastard Heyman stopped him from going after Ron and by the time he'd got to the hotel Ron was gone. Totally gone, his things and all. Bradshaw couldn't see the sense in that; they'd already paid for the room. He supposed pride was the reason; Ron didn't want to share his room with someone he thought was a no-good back-stabbing traitor. From Ron's point of view, Bradshaw couldn't really blame him. And he wouldn't have liked Bradshaw's advice even if he'd bothered to stay and hear it since the advice would have been to go and beg for his job back. That's all it would have been though, a suggestion, Bradshaw wouldn't have made him go, it would have hurt Ron's pride, and when pride's all a man's got left, he'll defend it like nothing else.

All the pride in the world wouldn't have stopped Bradshaw chasing after Ron if he'd known where he was. He'd have chased him to the ends of the Earth, got down on his hands and knees and begged him to stay, if he could have done it. But he couldn't, `cause he had no idea where Ron had gone and he wasn't going to go searching. He didn't mind Ron knowing how much more he meant to him than pride, but he was damned if he was going to let everyone else know.

He wondered if those kids knew exactly what they risked losing, that in all but a few cases, your tag team partner always watched your back even after you had separated, even if you were fighting like cats and dogs, he'd stick up for you against someone else. It was like having a brother. Especially in the way you could talk to them, even if it was only shooting the breeze, it was fun. And now with Ron gone, Bradshaw was falling back into the worst of his old ways; it took Ron to keep him on an even keel.

Had they ever been as wet behind the ears as Angle's boys were? Bradshaw really hoped not. It was strange seeing them, kind of like shrunken mirror images. Of course the chances were they weren't 'you know' but even if they weren't it didn't matter, he longed for the days when his and Ron's relationship had been so uncomplicated.

He supposed in a way their relationship was uncomplicated now; it was over, it was no more, you couldn't get any less complicated than that.

Bradshaw turned away from the two boys, who thankfully hadn't noticed him looking. In ten, fifteen years time, would one of them be standing in a bar like this, thinking the same things? He might not have liked them, right now he downright loathed them, but he hoped to God neither of them would.

"Hey, barkeep, fill her up again." Bradshaw thought again. "And stick a shot of whiskey in her too."