Busting Out
Shoved my shoulder straight into that molded blister shell. Popped the seam. Climbed out boots first onto cold varnished wood. WWE? Whatever script they're running, I don't follow scripts. Gripped my mic tight, squared up, and found an empty soda can sitting on the table. Kicked it square in the side. Loud metallic crunch rattled through the quiet room. Concrete, plastic, metal—doesn't matter. I make my own ring out here.