The persistent, depressing rain dropped from the dark skies, like a leaky faucet hanging above thirty-five year-old Bill Buckley’s life. The added touch of a passed out drunk in the parking lot of “Zieba’s,” a local Greensboro bar, should’ve been a foreshadowing bit of news that his life wasn’t about to get better. As a meteorologist, he lived by the weather. When you let the clouds and spit from the heavens guide you, eventually you’ll uncover rock bottom.

“Mumble, mumble, mumble…”

Maybe most drunks are happiest drowning in a puddle of mud and rainy slush. Buckley assumed so and moved inside.

The music torched his ears, and the stench did nothing better. Buckley was desperate in his life for a clue. As far as being a sore thumb, he picked up on that like a champ.

“Excuse me,” Buckley leaned over the bar to tempt the barkeep’s attention. “Ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” Nearby patrons laughed.

“Shut up, Frank.”

“Yes,” Buckley threw up in his mouth, then recomposed himself. It was late. Merritt’s call to pick up his talent for the wrestling show tomorrow night was unprofessional. Why couldn’t Chad do it himself? Buckley said yes, of course. He misplaced his backbone years ago. He simply took Chad’s call, and after undetectable hesitation, agreed to pick Sammy Benson up at the airport. Benson caught an earlier flight and left word to his junior employers he’d be at a cabbie- recommended watering hole. Buckley’s spent all night searching. There was something soothing about running from bar to bar in Greensboro; the weather he said wasn’t moving in for another two days hanging over him like a second skin. His wife talked of leaving him three nights ago. Bill’s life was going nowhere. Tonight, he didn’t mind walking towards it alone.

“Is there a Sammy Benson in here?”

“Who?”

“Sammy---“

“The short, fat guy from out of town? Honey, if you’re claiming him…”

“He’s here then?”

“He left about ten minutes ago, sugar. Well, crawled out is more honest.”

Apparently, Buckley thought to himself, happy drunks don’t get far.


(Back to the Warehouse in 1988…)

(CUT-TO: The 'auditorium' portion of the warehouse. Five hundred folding chairs have been placed throughout the room; only 150 are filled. To one side of the ring, backed up against the security railing, a table is set up. Its occupants are a small monitor, two microphones, and two men. One appears nervous and oddly out of place. The other is pudgy and slightly drunk. He reaches for a six-pack of beer that lays next to his chair.)

BILL BUCKLEY: Do you really think it's professional to drink on the job?

SAMMY BENSON: Look around, do you really think this is a profession?

BILL BUCKLEY: (to himself) Calm down Bill, you'll do fine.

(Sammy laughs and hands Bill a beer)

SAMMY BENSON: Here, it'll settle your nerves.

BILL BUCKLEY: My nerves don't need settling! Where did they find you anyway?

SAMMY BENSON: Had a friend who used to own this place. Oh the stories I could tell. The women, the beer, the beer..Did I mention...

BILL BUCKLEY: Yes you did. (extends hand) Bill Buckley.

SAMMY BENSON: Sammy. What do you say, Buckley? Any chance they'll pull this off tonight?

BILL BUCKLEY: I hope so. I’m beginning to hate the rain.