STEVIERAYBONES'S PROFILE

The old years...



If stacked up dominoes could send their shared pain of a collapse to one place, that place may understand my aching when I dropped on the mattress. My syndrome aged me backwards. I was born what he became: an old irrelevant man. I was Benjamin Button; the man on the other side of the curled up naked woman was Ric Flair, my hero.


“I’m leaving,” she said, “two dicks and no boners, what a horrible time.” She held the sheet against her breasts and wrapped it around her body. Flair set half-way up, while his own boobs sagged over his large belly. Pressing his palms against the mattress to hold up his weight, he looked at me with his mouth open.“Where is she going?” he said.


“She’s leaving. You and I both fell asleep.”


“Wait, sweetheart, you haven’t even begun to ride Space Mountain!” Ric cried.


She was now fully clothed with her hair in a messed up pony tail and her feet cramming into her heels. “I’m going to get on twitter and tweet that Space Mountain is broke, and you—you’re no better, Benjamin Button. Your dead weight dick just drops to the side!”


“Go tweet, you twat!” I yelled, reaching for my walker. “Who needs you?”


After the door slammed, I heard sobbing. Ric’s nose turned red, and his lips and chin pouted in a curled up mess.


“Don’t worry about her, champ. Just some 19 year old know nothing. She didn’t see you wrestle that two out of three fall match with Rick Steamboat. To me you’re still strutting in those alligator shoes. You’re the man with the long hair and the big gold belt. You’re out there almost getting pinned but— plot twist— instead having the 60 minute time limit draw. What’s it like to be young, champ? What’s it like to be in the prime of your life? To have the money and the fame?”


“Who’s that guy? Who’s that fucking guy?” Flair reached over the side of the bed and grabbed his bottle of Screaming Eagle and continued crying and drinking.


“All you ever do, anymore, is cry,” I mumbled to myself, closing the door.


As I rolled my walker down the sidewalk, I thought in the streetlamp lighting, “Will I be the same as a young man as I am an old man, or will I be ready for the moment?”


“It aint all it itsth cracked up to be, kid.” From across the street, I heard a voice with a lisp say. With his hands in his pocket and teeth as white as the curled hair hanging from his hat, the round figure in the fur coat and top hat smiled at me.


“My lord, the Screaming Eagle must be hitting me! You died two years ago!” I said.


“You’re only asth dead asth you feel.” Dusty Rhodes roared in laughter underneath the top hat. “Besidesth if I wasth dead would I be thisth perty?”


“Who…are you?” I said. And what do you mean…not all it’s cracked up to be?”


“You’re going to think I’m being corny.” He said. “But the fame isth justh a Dusthy finisth. You misth out on the family, you misth out on the friendsth, you misth out on true—” His voice rose “lovin’ and duvin’. And you think you got sthomething, but it’sth justh a Dusthy finisth!”


“You know what? No. You say this now, because you had your chance. I’m just starting out.” I shook my head and continued, “Bah, Screaming Eagle…”


The cab driver emerged from the front seat. “You ok, there?”


“What’s your name?” I asked the bald driver in a vest. The street lamp and my aged eyes didn’t give me enough light to make out his expression.


“My name Virgil.” He said. Somehow, I felt he smiled.


“Virgil, do you see anybody across the road?”


“No, mista, I don’t.”


He took my elbow and helped me in the backseat.



The prime years...


Long after we buried Flair, I looked in my apartment’s hall of mirrors and beheld Brad Pitt, except with muscles bulking from my back and front upper torso and my biceps. Wrestle-Mania 45 would be mine. Still, I couldn’t think of Ric without thinking of how at his wake, I slept with the champ’s 16th wife—his widow. I did it doggy style, with her silk black dress over her waste and her thong down, because it made me feel power. At that time of my life Stephanie McMahon, HHH, and their son, Stephanie McMahon Jr., told every outlet I would be a most unique superstar. My ego made me fuck her. And worse it made me do her standing doggy style, with her head under the lid of Ric’s coffin. I saw through her eyes and smelled through her nose: the coffin, the metal, the wood, the hardness, the champ inside there, more rotten than ever. Her moaning and mourning poured into the shell of the champ who’d done his final Flair drop.


“You ready for this, champ,” the gray beard of Enzo said. He appeared behind me in the mirror with a head band, bleached hair, and a gray beard. Short but loud, my manager made me feel prestigious, calling me champ.


“I’m going to win the belt at Wrestle-Mania. Of course, I’m ready.” I said smiling, ear to ear.


“I meant to shmoke some rocks, dummy!” He pulled out his crack-pipe, and his gray beard turned to a villain’s smile.


When Wrestle-Mania came, and the main event hit, Enzo walked behind me and the Zo train followed me holding my IC title and my US title above their heads. I’d now challenge for the Universal title. WWE showcased giants, midgets, Greek gods, but never a man who aged backwards—never until I came along. I threw the hood off my robe and a couple 18 year old female You Tube celebrities, a nine and a ten, took the robe from me. I chased them around the ring as they laughed. I swung at the air, ready to challenge the champ; the one everyone talked about since November. Her classical music entrance theme hit.


First came out the manager Dolphy Ziggler, who’d fully transitioned into a woman from only being part the way there during her wrestling days. Then emerged, carrying the beauty of the red strap, Charlotte Flair. The 60,000 at the Citrus Bowl cheered for her strength. She’d overcome her brother and father’s death. Also, The fall prior, with a figure 8 on Kevin Owens, she pushed and pushed to apply pressure. He passed out and got counted down. With shoulders widened but smile humbled, the first female to win the Universal title celebrated in front of Greensboro, at the Starrcade house show she won it at. Then, when nobody but she, the WWE 24 cameraman, and Dolphy were around, she touched the tear on her cheek, as if it could connect her to her father and brother only for a moment's magic. Dolphy placed her hand on the champion's back and whispered, “Sweetheart, they’re proud of you.”


The surreal stare-down in one's first Wrestle-Mania takes a back seat to the nudging from the importance of perfection. As the champ squeezed my head with her long legs, I recognized the irony to myself. My hero’s daughter would lose and retire to be with family before she got too old to enjoy that. What a fool I thought, maneuvering my way to my feet. I grabbed her legs and snapped on an abrupt figure four. I noticed her tan left leg sagged a bit. Her age caught up to her, while I had shed 50 years in just 10. I heard the crowd's “woos!” and I ripped at her leg. Then, I bridged my body and turned it into a figure 8! The Woos turned to boos and chants for Charlotte. What a perfect performance! She powered out. We both mounted to our feet and she chopped the shit out of me with a slap that even a roofless arena could hear. The Woos could be heard again. 15 minutes disappeared in going from just a few short rest-holds to fast and furious chops and punches to top rope drops. The match paced itself like my life. When she super-plexed me, the body that once could not sustain a drop on the mattress could feel nothing but adrenaline against the canvas. She pulled at my leg. And, then, she locked me for a figure 8! I sold like her stepmom had once done for me, but then she slapped my leg with the signal we agreed would be given for me if she would allow me to reverse the hold. I laughed in evil jubilee. As I turned, and she and I lay on our stomachs, I eyed Enzo’s face at ringside, his smirking and winking. I pushed up, applying pressure. The hold then released. She and I stood, and she chopped me down. She went to lock me one more time with her figure 8, and I rolled her up: 1, 2, 3... The bell rang. If the crowd made a sound it went in the heavens above the roofless arena, and the gods kept it a secret. But without looking I could see the fans’ tears. Dave Meltzer leaked it’d be sweet Charlotte’s retirement.


The referee handed me the title. I walked half way down the aisle holding ol’ red up with the Zo train holding my other titles up. I looked around, and the crowd was on their feet, embracing Charlotte. I could feel their pain. They chanted, “Thank you, Charlotte!”


You see this, champ! You see this! She’s shtealing your pizzazz.” Enzo complained.


Anger moved me back to the ring, shaking my head. She conspired this! She calculated the people would sympathize for her and demand her return, hence she’d be on top, again. I limped back to the ring, pulled myself to the apron, and grabbed the referee by the shirt. “Tell her to get the fuck out of my limelight!” The referee nodded his frown marks at me, walked over to her, and whispered to her. The members of the Zo train hoisted me up. I saw the image of Ric at Starrcade 83, holding the ten pounds of gold over his head and letting the blood run down his body. I glimpsed that Charlotte stepped through the ropes and put her head down and her arm around Dolphy. This image vanished in the moment but haunted me, years later.




And those years came quickly. At my apartment the doorbell rang, and Enzo greeted me with a bottle of Screaming Eagle. “Why so sherious, champ? You get the call or shomething?”


Before the Screaming Eagle and pain killers numbed me, the feeling of my bare feet in the soft and clean checkered carpet resonated. Home felt strange. Still, I'd feel this for years to come. “No but I’m expecting it.” I replied, concerning the call he inquired of.




The teenage years...



We smoked rocks, and he bragged about his Instagram followers. I said little. Social media had been unkind to me with me being a casualty of the new “Me Three movement.” The movement got its roots in the “Me Too,” of years past but had a 3 strike rule. I’d grabbed an ass at a party once. The cool fabric full of flesh failed to be worth it now. She turned and pushed me and said, “just cuz your Benjamin Button doesn’t mean you can do what you want." The coke, the Screamin’ Eagle, the ego, made me shrug it off. Strike two and three came from the girl on YouTube on my phone.


“Turn that shit off," Enzo said. “She’s just a whore.”


I responded little in my alcohol and pain killer infused trance. I felt none of her words as I looked into her eyes. Her pupils showed to be present and brown, but their souls absent. The camera shot upwards at her pale skin, thin mouth, and bangs. She said “You need to know, twice, Benjamin Button sexually assaulted me. The sex was non-consensual, because he bothered me multiple times before I said yes on both occasions.”


A soft, male voice in the background asked. “How many times did he bother you before each time?”


“Upwards of twice!” she said.


“Waky waky!” Enzo grabbed my phone from me. “I shaid turn the whore off.”


Then, the phone rang. I grabbed it from Enzo and answered. “Hello.”


“Hello, Benjamin.” The husky voice of Stephanie McMahon Jr. said.


He didn’t have to say more but did. He spoke about advertisers and shareholders and how my image wasn’t up to par. I said nothing. He said nobody wanted to lose to a man who looked like a 16 year old boy. I felt nothing. He gave his regards. We hung up.


The following years, Enzo remained on TV, and I didn’t see him anymore. I spent time at home and spent money on drugs and whores. That’s how I met her.



"You look like you're 10 years old," Shelly said.


With my squeaking I said, “Just bend over. You’ll see I aint no little boy.”


“Wow, you’re really that Benjamin Button!” She walked about my apartment and leaned on the window seal made out of a bed. She peered over Lake Michigan with her short curly hair. Then, I felt something; a warm feeling that in the past I never made time to notice. “You know what the difference between me and drug dealer is?” she said.


I smirked. “What.”


“They can only sell their crack once; I can wash mine and sell it again.”


I chuckled with heart.


“I could get use this view…” Shelly said.


The image of her leaning over the window seal with Lake Michigan in the background. “Yeah, me too.” I remarked.


Shelly and I married, but the love I felt grew to that of a mix of one would have for a wife with that of a sister, and finally a mother. She took me to the park and pushed me on the swing. Sex became an option no longer. The younger I got, the less time we spent together. I blamed her not. The responsibility to take care of me, I wished to put on nobody. But to let her go meant dying alone. We’d go to the park and I’d hug her and squeeze her like I’d never see her again.


My ability to speak became small words, and soon all I could do to get her attention was cry. The crib, made of fiberglass and wood, rocked for some time on the checkered carpet. Also, looking like the coach out a fairy-tale, it appeared to be a luxurious bed to grow out of, but some days I couldn't look at it, knowing the coach-like thing awaited me. Once my life became refined to it, it’s all I could do but hope she'd picked me up and I’d smell the floral scent of her “Roses are Red” perfume. I could not speak but thoughts haunted me: Flair’s tears over the bottle of screaming Eagle, Charlotte going through the ropes and hugging Dolphy after my denial of her goodbye to her fans, and Shelly not being home. I cried a lot.


The baby years...



Then, day and night, I felt my throat sore, my nose wet, and my blood hot. I’d cry and cry and some days, Shelly would pick me up and whisper to me.



The day came. I felt hungry in my crib. I heard the door open. Then, I silenced as her head rose into sight. Her eyes lit up. I laughed. Then, I felt my crib quake. Then... she... moaned. Pounding and moaning reached the threshold of my senses and conscience awareness. "Oh, n--n--o..." I thought. Her head began to bounce in and out of my view. "Shelly, no!" My crib shook from the impact of another man's weight shoving her into it. “Shelly no, Shelly no!" I thought. “Stop!”


She moaned and moaned as I cried and cried.


Next, smoke and his head band and gray beard came into sight. “How ya doing, baby Benjy.” Enzo laughed. Then Shelly laughed, and they slobbered all over each other in front of me.


A chin cleft came into sight. Stephanie McMahon Jr. said. “He doesn’t look good at all.” He paused and his head looked at Shelly's curly one. “We should put you on TV!” Stephanie McMahon Jr. said to Shelly. He, Enzo, and Shelly laughed aloud.


I cried in protest, but they ignored it and their laughing faces moved out of my sight. Come back, you bastard! I wanted to yell to Enzo. Come back, you dirty whore! I wanted to yell at Shelly. But jailed by this fiber glass and wood, all I could do was cry.

I heard the door shut, and my crying exhausted. Utter quietness consumed the room. Alas, to die alone I was left to do. Too tired to make a sound, I stared into forever's silence. A back door creaked and broke the eternity. Foot steps made it's way to me, away from me, and finally back to me again.


A familiar smiling face with curly white hair and a top hat came into sight. Dusty had dark circles under his eyes, but his grin sparkled as white as his hair. He picked me up in his soft arms. His fur coat itched yet comforted me. “Hushth, little baby. Don't sthay a word. Sthoon it will be over and you going to understhand the good, the bad and the ugly of it all.” He said.

I read a theory that I thought was interesting. There is a character named Shinra in final fantasy 10-2. Based on the studying that he's conducted some believes he in a time prior to the event in final fantasy 7, travelled to the FF7 universe and became the ancestor to the Shinra family in FF7.

What are some theories that you've read or thought up?

I very much appreciate all the feedback. It's hard to see things clearly when you're making a game..To better it, you rely on others honesty. I believe unity of effect is very important and I understand I'm doing something difficult. My initial goal was to marry the old school 2D RPG (which is usually fantasy and adventure) with the psychological thriller. In the humor, the characters, and all aspects I've tried to unite it with a dark weirdness. Still, uniting all those things may prove more difficult than I thought. But I will consider this feedback and I guarantee will have a better project for it.

Its only part of it if you want people to see it. It's like debating whether or not asking whether or not getting an audience for a picture you drew is part of drawing it. Technically speaking, no it's not. Still one who draws with the intent in finding an audience might say, the worst part about drawing is finding an audience to see it.

Hello,

I think it's good to embrace the things you hate most at any job, because that's how you learn something unfamiliar or even unnatural to you and expand your skills.

What do you hate most about creating/publishing a video game? Mine is trying to market it.