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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 9:29:02 GMT
News Story: "10 Things FWA Doesn't Want You to Know About Michelle Von Horrowitz" (July 27th, 2020). 
They sat opposite one another in the greasy cafe, one of the few that was open at this time of night and didn't have the now-obligatory, hypnotic rotating cylinder of unspecified meat behind the counter. She wouldn't eat in a place like that. She couldn't eat in a place like that. She wouldn't have been able to focus on anything else. The boy was opposite her, tucking into a tray of falafel, hummus, and what might have been bulgur wheat. It was a strange sort of meal: an unhappy middle ground between a Buddha bowl and a donner kebab. She had a similar tray in front of her, but it remained untouched. They had bought two lights from a drugstore next door and had them covertly positioned within brown paper bags. He had been neglecting his, but she'd been pulling away incessantly at her own. She feared that the beer might sobre her up.
He placed his plastic fork down by the side of his tray and leant back on his chair, dabbing the sides of his mouth with a paper napkin. He let out a deep sigh, and then reached for his phone, idly tapping away as she drained the last of her beer. She took his without him noticing.
“What do you people do on those things?” she asked, for once overcome by her curiosity.
“The internet is a wild and wonderful place,” he declared, rather opaquely. She wasn’t really sure what he meant. Fortunately, he clarified. “I saw this earlier today, for example. When I was on my way to the docks looking for you. You might find it interesting.”
He had a playful smile on his face as he handed her the phone, clicking the play button and then leaning back once again in a satisfied manner. Her eyes drifted down to the screen, and took in the ten minute and twenty-eight second clip in an almost stunned (and very rare) near-total silence…As Roy Orbinson plays in the background, we get a series of still images of our protagonist, and a voiceover begins to talk over them. This is the common aesthetic trend of the video, inter-spliced with typed up transcripts of quoted parties. The voice is English and unappealing.
“Trans-atlantic cruise ships, Academy award winners, Greyhound coaches, and brawls with matadors... Probably not what you’d expect from a former CWA headliner and a current FWA champion… but history doesn’t lie, folks! I’m Adam Pacitti for WhatCulture Wrestling, and this is 10 Things FWA Wants You to Forget About Michelle von Horrowitz. Don’t forget to like and subscribe…” |
“Number ten: She left CWA under acrimonious circumstances…”
“It’s no secret that Michelle von Horrowitz’s time in the now-defunct Clique Wrestling Alliance was short and rocky, and the ending was no different. After winning a triple threat match against LIGHTBRINGER and Elijah Edwards to be crowned the CWA High Voltage Champion, MvH did as she promised and disappeared from Adrenaline Rush. She even popped up in a couple of Japanese promotions to defend the belt, just as she said she would, but pretty soon afterwards she disappeared from public view entirely… well, unless you count her last ‘official’ CWA appearance, where she dropped the belt to the man who back then went as “Nasty” Nick Savage in just under three minutes. Some have argued that von Horrowitz was paid a hefty lump sum and released from media commitments to throw the match with Savage, whilst others have claimed that a doppelganger was brought in to save face for the company. Either way, MvH has never publicly commented on the match with Savage and only recognises her first two pinfall defeats in the CWA: both to Jon Snowmantashi. Doubtlessly, FWA wouldn’t want people remembering the shady circumstances under which von Horrowitz cut ties with her last major promotion...
Number nine: She has been arrested in four different countries.
Michelle von Horrowitz has worked hard over the last five years to cultivate her bad-girl image, even going so far as to disappear off the face of the earth for three of them to accomplish that. Much like the Bulls had Rodman, the A-Team had Bad Attitude Baracus, and WhatCulture had that one that we don’t mention anymore, the FWA has its own resident shit-stirrer in Michelle von Horrowitz. Reports from local media, as well as internet sleuths the world over, have dug up at least seven reliably-sourced arrests in Michelle’s chequered history. The first three - from the mid 2000s - are all in France, and specifically the Lille area, for minor drug possession charges. A fourth, from twelve years later near Marseilles, is on a disorderly offence, and in-between the French arrests are two in the Netherlands (both officially for failing to attend other court dates). Finally, there is one in Japan from 2014, again for drug possession, and an affray charge in Denver from 2017. Von Horrowitz has never denied any of them, and alluded to the truthfulness of at least two of the Dutch arrests and the one in Japan in an interview with Shake Meltzer in early 2018. Surprisingly, none of the arrests have been sustained, despite many of those country’s often tough approach to foreign criminals (von Horrowitz is a citizen of the Netherlands only). This has lead to an argument over whether MvH is innocent and persecuted, or if she is more friends in the right places than you might expect…
Number eight: She once brawled with Anzu Kurosawa and matadors in Nagano.”
“This one sounds almost too barmy to be true, but in a 2016 interview with Cornwall-based Japanese pro-wrestling blog The Truro Puro, Anzu Kurosawa herself confirmed many of the details. It was back in 2009 and in Nagano, where a twenty-eight year old Kurosawa and a nineteen year old von Horrowitz took part in an impromptu tag team bar brawl against a matador and his entourage. Well, to hear Anzu tell the story, the veracity of the man’s claim is in question, but you shouldn’t let the truth get in the way of a good story…
Number seven: she is terrified of flying.”
“Although von Horrowitz has never spoken about her fear of flying in interviews, it’s been confirmed by two separate bookers who have discussed MvH’s odd travel arrangements in detail. In addition to refusing to fly, in at least one arrangement with a promoter in the United Kingdom, she would still be paid if the shipping forecast jeopardized safe passage over the Channel. When quizzed about this at a press conference before this year’s Back in Business, Lord Vincent did admit that von Horrowitz has clauses that preclude her from having to travel in the air, and give her the option to take a week off before international shows in order to travel over sea instead. Given her growing ability to draw fans to live shows for the company, I seriously doubt that the FWA would want you to be able to forecast the weeks in which she will be absent from Fight Night…
Number six: Her much-reported but unconfirmed relationship with Jean-Luc Watkins.”
“After disappearing from the CWA and from the public eye, von Horrowitz eventually resurfaced in 2018. A series of much-reprinted photographs circulated the tabloid press, showing MvH with fellow professional wrestling alumni and abscondee Jean-Luc Watkins. Pictured in cafes, theatres, and night clubs across Germany and France, rumour spread amongst the pro-wrestling community that the two were an item. And, if not an item, perhaps a returning tag team. Watkins’ eventual relocation to Moscow, where he continues to work at a subsidiary of his father’s vast business empire, brought about another media blackout for the pairing, and it seems that Watkins has no intention of joining von Horrowitz on American shores. Given the bumpy relationship between Watkins and Lord Vincent, particularly during his stint in Next Generation Wrestling, FWA management probably think this relationship is best left in the past.
Number five: she was ejected from FWA Back in Business 2008.
At the age of eighteen, Michelle von Horrowitz - along with three friends - travelled from New York to watch the second edition of what would become the FWA’s most famous pay-per-view: Back in Business. This is one of the few stories in this list that was recounted by von Horrowitz herself, who spoke at this year’s Back in Business press conference about her two previous visits: the afore-mentioned tag team match in 2016, and this one way back in 2008. Things were going well, she said, and she even managed to sneak backstage by pretending to be someone’s daughter or girlfriend (or maybe both to different people). She had watched the show play out from “inside the belly of the beast”, and “would be within arm’s reach of the FWA World Championship years before [she] wrestled [her] first match here”. Sometime during the main event, whilst hanging around at gorilla position, someone had clocked on and she’d been politely asked to leave. When she’d not so politely refused, she was thrown out the hard way. Not really model employee behaviour...
Number four: she often takes Greyhound coaches between shows.”
“Whilst her colleagues may drive or be driven or even fly from city to city to compete on Fight Night, it’s often been reported that Michelle von Horrowitz catches the Greyhound between shows. In fact, there have been dozens of Social Media posts of MvH on Greyhounds in cities as disparate as Detroit, San Francisco, Austin, and Vancouver, as well as a UK National Express Instagram-sighting somewhere near Spaghetti Junction in Birmingham. This post from April of this year, in Pennsylvania, shows von Horrowitz lying across the back seats of the coach, clutching her X Division Championship tightly to her chest. How sweet. I feel certain that FWA wouldn’t want MvH advertising that fact, even if the posts are coming from other people. Then again, who’d try and take it off her?
Number three: she is a long-time pen pal of Oscar-winner JK Simmons.”
“The eagle-, urm, -eared amongst you may have noticed a familiar voice on the FWA Payback supercard earlier this summer. Yes, that’s right, J. Jonah Jameson himself and MvH have long been in written correspondence with one another, even throughout von Horrowitz’s many well-publicized and abrupt changes of address. According to Simmons himself in a 2016 Maxim interview - around the time of that year’s Five-Star Attraction - it had begun in 1997, when she had written to him about the fourth episode of the first season of HBO’s ‘Oz’. After a few letters, Simmons found out that the girl was seven years old, and advised against her continuing with the series. He suggested that she watch ‘Anastasia’ instead, an animated musical released that year in which he provided additional voices, and received back a lengthy essay about the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna of Russia, whose legend the film is based upon. It was the beginning of a twenty three year friendship that is still maintained to this day, as is evidenced by Simmons’ appearance on Payback. Given the legal troubles that particular segment has landed the company in, it’s needless to say that they probably won’t be reminding you of it in a hurry...
Number two: She has only interacted with Bell Connelly on one night…”
“Yes, despite the current vendetta that Michelle von Horrowitz has against Bell Connelly, calling the former World and Women’s Champion out repeatedly over the course of several months, the pair have only ever interacted twice, and both times were on the same night. That night was the FWA-CWA Supercard, and the second occasion - where MvH and PAJ defeated Jon Snowmantashi and Bell Connelly - is one that she has brought up a number of times throughout her tyrades. The other, earlier in the same night, involved the redecorating of von Horrowitz’s locker room. The FWA will certainly hope to eventually cash in on this brewing rivalry, and Connelly’s inevitable return… but I think they’d rather you didn’t think about the humble beginnings of the current animosity…
And, our number one: Kenta Kobashi threatened to come out of retirement to fight her.”
"Yes, that’s right: THE Kenta Kobashi, whose word is akin to gospel amongst some circles of professional wrestling fans, once proclaimed that he would come out of retirement and, I quote, “slap some good sense and respect into her” if she continued to use his renowned Burning Hammer super finisher. In fact, MvH has only used the move once, to put away Harrison Wake at CWA World’s Strongest all the way back in early 2016, and Kobashi made the comments to the Japanese press shortly afterwards. Who’s to say that, if von Horrowitz was to roll out the last-ditch move in FWA at some point, we wouldn’t get to see Kobashi make good on his promise? I’m sure her new bosses wouldn’t relish the thought of von Horrowitz coming up against the fifty three year old master. Unless, of course, there’s money to be made…
So, that’s our list! Tell us in the comments below if you think we’ve left anything off, and - as always - don’t forget to like and subscribe! Until next time, I’m Adam Pacitti, and this is WhatCulture Wrestling…” |
“What… How… What the fuck was that?!”
“I told you,” he said, picking the phone up and putting it back in his pocket. “The internet is a wild and wonderful place. Was much of it true?”
“Some of it,” she said. “That’s hardly the point.”
The pause seemed to stretch on longer than needed. She felt as if what little color she did have had drained from her face. Eventually, she continued.
“Is there one like that about you?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
“It’s good to have dreams.” |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 9:30:24 GMT
Open Promo: "The Drinking Contest" (w/ Alyster Black) (August 6th, 2020).
In the middle of a shitty biker bar sat two combatants on adjacent stools. Between them, a small round table, four bottles of cheap disgusting scotch, and a line of shot glasses already filled to the brim with the uninviting brown liquid. Surrounding them were burly men covered in facial scars, donning leather jackets and making a ruckus. The two combatants were quite out of place. One of them was a petite, European blonde with social issues and a competitive side that made world champion boxers look like chumps. Opposing her was a partially masked man who was comparatively more well adjusted than her, if barely.
The differences between them were stark, almost to the point where pointing them out is a redundant exercise. Their size, their heritage, and their posture were obvious physical representations of their uniquities. The man was almost slouched, one hand on the table in front of him, the other slowly and deliberately rotating the glass in front of him. The woman was leant forwards, elbows on the table, her chin rested upon her palms. The fingertips upon her left hand slowly massaged the inflamed lymph node just below her earlobe. She estimated its diameter and monitored its shape. No change. Never any change. The man just regarded her dully, waiting for the battle to begin.
But for every difference, there was a notable similarity also. They were both dressed in black, just as they always were. They were both smoking, just as they always were. And in both of their body languages was a similar strain of sullen apathy. In the man, it manifested itself in his hunched shoulders and the slight bend in his back, both results of years of poor posture. In the woman, it was present in the dull, ever-present boredom that clung around her eyes. She assumed that he would be the same, if she could get him out of that mask.
Earlier in the evening they had been wrestling and after their respective matches bade farewell to their tag team partners. They promptly found a watering hole to wet their whistles, independently of course. they’d not actually interacted before this evening, save for a few offhand comments. The blonde had arrived first, immediately went to work on destroying her liver and causing a slight but noticeable tension in the bar with each (albeit rare) interaction she had. The barkeeper had half a mind to throw her out in order to keep the peace, but had decided that there weren’t enough other patrons to justify such a rash action. Beggars can’t be choosers. The masked man arrived second, though it would be some time before he even noticed the blonde there. He’d been too busy outside enjoying a post Fight Night cigarette.
He enjoyed the winter air as it kissed his face along with the warmth of each inhalation of his death stick. Needing to get away from the crowd for a moment - and also feeling the urge to increase her chances of developing lung cancer - the blonde had walked out of the saloon and inadvertently joined him. He offered her a light and made casual polite small talk that very clearly fell on deaf ears. She was nice enough to thank him for the light. He finished his cigarette in silence and disposed of the butt in a nearby ashtray. He went inside to continue his life long goal of entering an early grave from substance abuse.
She also enjoyed the winter air, it was comforting to her in a weird way. She was not a fan of American summers. They were far too hot and unnatural and had an unusual stink to them. She couldn’t quite put her finger on the source of it. Perhaps it was the pollution that streamed into the night air all around her. Or maybe it was the people, who seemed to use the oppressive Summer heat as fuel for their equally sunny dispositions. The sort of pride that these people displayed in their country was as misplaced as it was obnoxious. She found it nauseating. When she finished her smoke, she casually flicked it onto the pavement below and reentered the dingy establishment. Inside, she found her counterpart standing by the bar, a half empty beer in hand, arms wrapped around two giant bikers and singing sea shanties. She found it odd that landlocked American bikers were singing about life at sea and even more odd that the partially masked man was joining them after only half a beer. In that moment she was able to confirm a hypothesis she’d made. That hypothesis being that she did not like this man at all.
She avoided him for as long as she could. Hanging around the pool table and husting a rather burly man out of his money, having lost the first game on purpose and beating him in the rematch rather handily. A fight was about to break out and the masked man being the gentleman that he was intervened. He grabbed the big man’s attention and offered to buy him a drink as a peace offering. This did not sit well with either the burly biker or the blonde hustler. The burly man quickly came into agreement with the masked man after the masked man put a hand on his shoulder and pinched a nerve so hard that the burly fellow was brought to tears. This in the blonde woman’s book was strike two. She was owed money, and now he was getting a free drink. That grated on her.
Strike three came a little later in the evening when the tipsy masked man demanded that she thank him for all his deeds that night. Apparently, offering her a light and preventing her from beating a large man half to death was worthy of gratitude. She heavily disagreed. The back and forth slurred shouting reverberated through the bar and soon both of them were being pulled apart by a large group of onlookers. It was then that a diplomatic solution to their problem was proposed. A drinking contest, one fought over pride. Both parties laid out their terms. If the masked man was victorious the blonde woman would have to acknowledge him. If the blonde was victorious the masked man would have to give his mask to her. This term was deemed unreasonable and the blonde offered an alternative. If she won he would have to “fuck off and die”. This alternative was much more agreeable to him, and so they shook hands and took their positions by the small round table.
The shots were poured for them and each competitor slammed back their first drink. They both hissed as the cheap whiskey burned their throats. While neither of them would consider themselves picky when it came to alcohol, their opinion on this swill would more than likely be the same. That it was dreadful and not worth even pouring onto the street, less some poor insect have the misfortune to ingest it. But their pride was on the line. So they continued on, slamming back shot after shot. They were both a few drinks into the night before the competition started, and it only took a few drinks to push both of them over what would be considered ‘functional’ drunk. Insults were being traded back and forth, her tongue was particularly sharp and he wasn’t afraid to admit that her words cut him deep.
That was when he dropped a C-bomb. Tensions rose and the onlookers readied themselves to break up another fight. She, however, was European, and while she did not care for being called that word, it was hardly any worse than anything else said to her. If the word wasn’t specifically associated with the sort of festering misogyny that she’d encountered the world over, she thought she might be able to get behind it. She liked the harsh taste it left on your tongue. The idea that he could get under her skin with words alone was quite laughable, though, even if she was at the wrong end of the night. She laughed the insult on, and had another drink.
At their fifteenth shot the masked man hesitated. The blonde’s poker face had long since faded and when it looked like he would not be able to finish this drink she couldn’t help but to smirk and taunt. The taunting was all the motivation he needed to finally put the drink down his gullet, to force the drink down his gullet, and when he did he could swear it was on fire. After checking with the patron closest to him he was quite relieved to find out it wasn’t.
It was around this time that people retelling the story start to contradict. Every eye witness reports a different ending and the two gladiators who fought in this sacred battle, well they can’t recall a thing that happened after the twentieth shot. The culmination remains a blank to both of them. It's unfortunate that - in this modern age of technology - these two had to have their showdown in a rundown crappy bar in the middle of nowhere, otherwise someone might have been savvy enough to film the proceedings. As it stands, no one can really say who won or lost on that night. Only that the blonde never acknowledged the masked man as anything more than an annoyance, and that the masked man had not left the bar to die. Though, twelve hours later, he very much felt like he had.
Legends about the dragon and the dreamer doing battle were told in that bar for weeks to come. And the only evidence of this encounter was a polaroid picture hung behind the bar. Of an unmasked man with dark hair and a 5 o’clock shadow sitting in a booth. An antisocial blonde has her arm around him, a smirk - no, a smile - plastered on her pale face.
-Fin |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 9:32:51 GMT
Promo history - volume 37.
"At the Drive-In" (August 8th, 2020).
Michelle von Horrowitz def. Ty Jordan (FWA: Division's Rules).
[VOLUME THIRTY-SEVEN]
MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
”AT THE DRIVE-IN.”
The Pleasant Plains Drive-In Theatre.Somewhere south-west of New Brunswick, NJ.
Thursday August 14th, 2020.
She sat on the hood of the battered old Buick, a half-drunk bottle of Jamie’s to her left and a half-smoked pack of Camels to her right. The film was projected onto a screen bigger than any she had ever seen, stretching across a huge wall that had been erected across one entire side of the glorified parking lot. Beyond it, the plains dominated the horizon, running off towards a dark, gloomy lake in the north and a wall of trees in the west. It was approaching midnight, this day turning into the next as passively as it always did. The theatre was re-running an old 1940s British film, one that Michelle had seen when she was a small girl in the Netherlands, and it was doing an inconsistent job at holding the attention of the rather varied audience. Some of them were students, having driven the short distance from Princeton to the south-east. Others were locals, down from Blackwood Mills or one of the townships, some of them on date night and others alone, yawning or staring off into the distance or, very occasionally, half-watching the events playing out in black and white. A handful of small trucks were dotted around the theatre: transients driving through on route to their destination, some other destination. An old Indian man in a pick-up slept away happily, directly in front of the screen, occasionally waking himself up with a particularly loud snore. Ten meters or so to her right, under the branches of a poplar tree, a truck driver was getting a hand job from a Hispanic boy half his age, his eyes closed and his head thrown back as he built towards his ecstasy. She wondered if this scene really matched what David Lean would’ve wanted. She supposed it didn’t really matter, now that he was dead.
”I wish I could trust you,” Celia Johnson was saying whilst staring at the camera - straight past the camera. A melodramatic gauze smothered her close-up. “I wish you were a wise, old friend...”
Three days ago, she had been in Philadelphia, and things had been good. She was silly to think it would last. As Celia had said in the film: ”This can’t last. This misery can’t last. I must remember that and try to control myself. Nothing lasts, really. Neither happiness nor despair. Not even life lasts very long.” Michelle had smirked to herself at the line. It was as true as it was contrived. But it had brought about a period of uncomfortable reflection. In Philadelphia, her overriding thoughts were concerning her most recent victory – their most recent victory – over Kevin Cromwell and Nova Diamond. These Charming Men had imploded after the match, but constant loss will do that to even the best of friends, and those boys were far from that. A week earlier, after forcing down her first taste of defeat since joining the company, she had been staring humiliation – born from potential back-to-back losses and a hypothetical first round exit - in the face. In the midst of the relief that victory brought, she had almost allowed herself to believe… to believe that the search for her assailant was coming to its end, and that the Goddess and the Prodigy had acted as unlikely Samaritans. But this belief didn’t last. ”Nothing lasts, really.”
Gerald had left for Brooklyn a couple of nights after their win, and that afternoon there had been a knock on her door. It was a runner from Fight Night, but the messenger had forgotten most of the message (naturally). Fortunately, he had had the foresight to write it down, and told her to contact the building security manager at the Richmond Coliseum. It had been over a month now since the attack, and still the arena in Virginia was yet to release the relevant CCTV footage to her. They didn’t have to at all, the building security manager had continually told her, despite the fact that she was, you know, the victim. The implication was that she should be grateful at being told to wait, her somewhat limp investigation growing staler with each passing day. Every time she’d called the odious little man, he’d tell her that the tapes were still with the detectives. Why the FWA felt the need to involve the police at all was beyond her.
When she’d dismissed the runner, she quickly found a payphone and called the number that he gave her. His name was Ron and he stank, almost to the point where she could smell the old smoke and sweat through the telephone line. He was as unreasonable and stubborn as ever: he gave her three days, and then they’d be re-using the tapes. Consulting the calendar and finding she had a touch-and-go three days until Division’s Rules, she jumped on the first Greyhound going South. She’d arrived at the Coliseum around fourteen hours later, the bus having taken an alternate route to steer well clear of the protests in Baltimore. It had stopped at Hagerstown instead on the way through to DC, before following southwards along the Potomac River and striking towards Richmond.
The Coliseum obviously hadn’t changed much in the six weeks since she’d last been there, but she got the overwhelming impression that it hadn’t changed a huge deal in the forty-nine years since it had been built. Right down to the Head of Security: an unexpectedly sullen (but predictably sweaty) man who kept his centre of gravity close to the ground and sort of waddled down the corridors. He had met her at reception and took her to his voyeur's grotto: a palace of screens and speakers and labelled buttons. With the sort of grunts and sighs indicative of a working man who felt thoroughly thrown out of his rhythm, he busied himself in collecting a VHS tape from a cupboard by his knees, placing it into the player and returning to his sandwich.
He was as helpful as he was willing to be. The video he’d fished from his collection was for the camera handily positioned at the end of the corridor that she’d been situated on that night. The footage started early, and when she’d asked how to fast forward it he’d passively pointed at a specific button on his control panel without looking up from his dirty magazine. She watched the sped-up tape, pausing momentarily the first time Lord Vincent appeared on-screen. She let it play at normal speed, watching on as the general manager walked up to her locker room door, knocked it, waited, and then walked away again. The time stamp read ’06/26/2020 18:48:32’, which she noted down in her little black pad. That was over an hour before the show started, and visiting this early was only ever bound to end in disappointment. Twice more the general manager came back, once at 19:35:06 and then again after the show had started at 20:15:11. There was also a lone visit from Gerald, at 20:08:42, and she didn’t doubt his intentions were to discuss the recent draw for The Elite Tag Team Classic. She noted it down nonetheless. Finally, at 20:33:42, she herself walked into the shot. Her rucksack was slung over her shoulder, the sleeves of her hoodie rolled up around her elbows. She pushed open the door, and before she walked in she took her cigarettes out of her pocket. She lit one and closed the door firmly behind her.
She returned to the fast forward function, watching the motionless corridor for a few moments, before finally Lord Vincent walked back into shot at 20:38:16. He paused at her locker room, considered knocking, and then continued on around the corner. A few minutes later, Ty Johnson made his way through the shot, failing to pause as he wandered past in the opposite direction to the Blackbird. Naturally, his eyes drifted onto the door of the locker room as he passed by, tracing over the name of its occupant. Michelle leant back, placing her hands behind her head as she regarded the image. She reached into her pocket, taking out her cigarettes.
“You mind if I smoke in here?” she said, holding the box in front of the Head of Security’s eyes.
“It’s against state health code regulations,” he declared, turning a page in his magazine.
Michelle placed them down in front of her and looked at the screen, and was confused to find it blank. She reached over for the fast forward button again, and eventually the feed of the corridor came back, with a time stamp of 21:52:48. The main event would already be in full swing, and she’d be in one of the wings of Richmond General. Instinctively, she pressed the button directly to the left of fast forward to rewind the video, the image finally returning at 20:49:36. She let it play, watching once more as Johnson walked past her door. He didn’t notice the camera whilst turning the corner underneath it and disappearing from sight. Less than a minute later, the feed cut to black.
She watched the footage again, perhaps half a dozen times, and then took her leave.
“You find what you were looking for?” a portly man with red cheeks asked as she emerged into the corridor. He stopped to offer out a hand, which Michelle stared at awkwardly. “Malcolm Cressen, Head of Public Relations for the Richmond Coliseum. I must say, you’ve caused me a fair amount of work these past few weeks…”
When it became apparent that she had no intention of shaking his hand, he took it back and used it to neaten up his greasy hair. He wiped the excess moisture away on his pant leg, and then stuffed his hands emphatically into his pockets.
“Have you seen the arena?” he asked, his spirits not dampened by the rather one-sided nature of the conversation. She shook her head, and the next thing she remembered was standing within the centre circle of a basketball court. Cressen had a big grin on his face.
“It’s something, right?” he said, taking it all in whilst turning a three-sixty. It was a question but it wasn’t really a question. “We’re putting on a charity basketball match. Friday night. Raising money for the elderly. Or maybe children. One of those age brackets, anyway. We’re still looking for a celebrity to throw the ball for the tip-off, if you’re interested?”
She thought ahead to Friday night, when she’d be standing opposite Ty Johnson. Division’s Rules would be in its closing stages and reaching its most important point. Just as they were about to come together with a collar and elbow tie-up, her mind’s feed cut to black, mirroring the security footage that she’d just been apathetically shown by Ron.
“I’m afraid I’m busy on Friday,” she said, her quiet voice echoing unnaturally around the empty arena. From their right, the sound of a door opening disturbed their sanctum, an elderly man with a hunched back pushing a mop through its frame. He obliviously went to work, scrubbing away at the concrete steps ahead of Friday’s big game.
“Not now, Jeffrey,” the executive said, taking a couple of steps towards the janitor and projecting his voice. “I’m in the middle of something.”
Jeffrey, leaning on his mop, looked down at the court. When he saw the executive, Michelle fancied she could see a momentary flicker of annoyance pass over his old, kind face. He suppressed it, nodded, and disappeared the same way he had come.
“It was you who dealt with the police?” Michelle asked, feeling the need to push the narrative thread along. Cressen turned back towards her, his grin disappearing quickly. He gripped the lapels of his jacket as he addressed her question.
“Yes, it was me,” he said. “Weeks they’ve been. First, there were two uniformed officers. One white guy and one black guy. You see a lot of that nowadays, you know? Anyway, they took the tapes, all of them, and they had them for three, maybe four weeks? Funny thing is: in the meantime, a different set of officers, your downtown sort of detectives, all polished and in suits, they came asking for the tapes as well.”
“A different set of guys?” Michelle asked, taking her notepad out again. “The plain-clothes pigs didn’t know that the uniforms had already been?”
“It didn’t seem like it,” Malcolm said, shuffling his weight uneasily between his left and right foot. “But they said this sort of thing happens. Different units with overlapping investigations and priorities, you know? When the tapes came back in the mail, I called the second set of detectives and they came for them. They were only interested in the one that you saw today, at the end of corridor A-34B. When they were finished with it, I called you. Or I would’ve done, if you had a phone.”
“There’s other tapes?” she asked. “Can I see them?”
“I’m afraid not,” he answered, shaking his head in rueful fashion. “When it became clear the police didn’t have a use for them, we re-used them. I only kept that one as a courtesy to you.”
“There’s a gap in the feed,” she said, trying to lock eyes with Cressen. “About an hour, between roughly 8:50pm and 9:50pm.”
“Yes, I noticed that. Ron and I obviously watched the tape back the morning after the attack, and that gap was there before we’d even removed it from the machine. The police commented on it, too, of course. The funny thing is, all of the tapes were like that. Corridor A-34B's camera and the rest of them, too. We think there might have been some glitch in the system.”
“A glitch in the system?” she asked, raising an eyebrow above her pad.
“A glitch in the system,” he repeated.
Half an hour later, she had been stood outside of the employee’s exit of the Richmond Coliseum, desperately trying to light a cigarette. She was out of gas, and she kept getting a spark that miserably petered out when she brought it towards the smoke. It appeared that the task was beyond her. She felt a wave of relief when a wrinkled hand holding a lighter appeared to perform it for her. She nodded in appreciation as she took in the first, deep, blissful drag.
"I'm sure Cressen seemed more helpful than he was," the old man said, sucking at his cigarette. With each drag, he let out a small, uneven cough that suggested he'd long stopped enjoying smoking, and kept the habit up out of nothing more than resilience. Only then did she realize it was the same janitor who had tried to wheel his mop through the arena a half hour before.
"He didn't seem very helpful at all," she said.
"That's Cressen for you," he said with a knowing chuckle. "So he couldn't tell you who attacked you?"
"You watch the show?" she asked, hesitantly, in-between drags. She was always cautious of people who watched the show.
"Every week," he answered, with a kind smile. "My money's on Bell. But I'll be damned if it isn't that Gerald Grayson kid all along…"
"Well," Michelle began, wondering what help the Coliseum janitor could possibly be in her investigation. She carefully concluded that he probably couldn't be much hindrance either. "He says two uniformed cops took the tapes, before the detectives came along. I don't know. I think the tapes have been tampered with. They seem almost useless. This whole journey has been almost useless. Only thing he told me was…"
She paused, flicking the end of her cigarette into a nearby drain. The show was drifting through her mind again, around forty-eight hours in the future and a stubborn feature upon an uncertain horizon. She should be there, she mused. Skulking around the corridors and asking questions. Instead, she was more than five hundred kilometers away, searching for meaning in blank screens and enquiring upon janitors for their judgement.
“He said the uniformed guys... one was white and one was black."
The old man couldn’t help but let out another chuckle.
“What are you thinking? That Sullivan and Johnson came to get the tapes themselves? Brought some fake badges and guns and aviator sunglasses from the fancy dress shop and duped old Cressen into handing them over? One white, one black… believe me, girl: the only color that that man sees is green…”
On the hood of the Buick, somewhere south-west of New Brunswick, another cigarette had smoked away to the filter, and she dispassionately placed it next to the others on the car’s hood. Behind her, Marianne let out a yawn, shuffled her position, and then continued to sleep soundly. On the screen, Celia Johnson was convincing her husband that she wasn’t up to no good… which, of course, she was. “It’s so very easy to lie when you know you’re trusted implicitly.” Celia only had half the truth. People found it easy to lie regardless of whether or not they would be believed. Michelle closed her eyes, imagining what it would be like to be able to fall asleep. It was, of course, utterly useless.
She had met Marianne at a bar somewhere in the north-western suburbs of the city, the Greyhound bus station visible through the window at which they were sat. Michelle had given up on the idea of being in Brooklyn in time for the show. It no longer seemed possible. When the young girl had decided that none of the empty tables were as inviting as Michelle’s, the wrestler decided she might as well see how things played out. She had explained her disaster at the bus station: the protests had spread from Baltimore to DC. If that wasn’t enough, Charlottesville and Hagerstown had increased local lockdown restrictions because of a spike in new cases. Standing at the information counter, Michelle was educated by one of the Greyhound Bus Company’s well-informed and thoroughly pleasant employees. She explained how the political situation, especially in an election year, when combined with a global pandemic have caused great uncertainty throughout the travel industry as a whole. The Greyhound Bus Company was not exempt, and as a result she would have to endure lengthy lay-overs in Charlotte and Columbus if she wanted to arrive in New York on Sunday afternoon. Two days after Division’s Rules.
Marianne was pleasant enough, but spoke too much. Everyone spoke too much. Generally, she discussed her travels across the States in her battered old car. She was from a small town in Montana, somewhere along the Canadian border, and had quit her job eight months ago to sale away in the Buick. ”North, east, south, or west…” she had said, whilst the pair of them smoked outside of the bar. She stared off at the moon as she spoke, as if one day she might be able to drive all the way there. Of course, a deal was quickly struck: a ride to New York in exchange for a motel tonight and a full tank of gas tomorrow.
“Whose funeral is it?” Marianne had asked from behind the wheel on the following day. They had just turned eastwards somewhere north of Hagerstown and were striking towards New York. It was already late, the sun just about giving up on the day and disappearing behind them as they drove.
“Funeral?” Michelle asked, blowing a plume of cigarette smoke through the open window.
“In New York, on Friday,” Marianne clarified.
“I told you it was a funeral?” Michelle did her best to dredge up the memory, but found it had been lost.
“Yeah,” Marianne confirmed. “Whose is it?”
“Ty Johnson’s,” Michelle answered, rather absently.
“Who is Ty Johnson?” Marianne asked, staring out of the windscreen and indicating as she nervously pushed out onto the highway. She thought for a moment, and corrected herself. “Who was Ty Johnson?”
“That’s not important.”
As she sat on the hood of the Buick in the Pleasant Pines Drive-In, she found it difficult to focus on the film without thoughts of Ty Johnson finding their way into her head. Hell, she’d be lucky if it was just Johnson: Gabrielle and Parr and their unknown motives were there, too, whilst Krash and Bell were never too far away either. She felt almost certain that she could consider Grayson clear now. His behavior was not the behavior of a guilty man and, without meaning to be condescending (but definitely being condescending), she felt he was too simple for the deception. And there was Sullivan.
The film was playing out its final moments, the same scene from the start of the film running once again. An hour and a half earlier, we had seen (but not heard) the handsome couple of Celia and Trevor sat in the corner of a railway café. An obnoxious waitress serves an obnoxious sort of neighbourly woman, who proceeds to notice our Celia. She is interrupting something, but at the time we have not been told what. At the film’s other end, we see it from the secret lovers’ perspective, having recounted their whirlwind romance before arriving at its bitter climax. Somehow, we are back where we started. Michelle’s mind raced to Gerald once more, and she found it disappointing that the closest human relationship – positive human relationship – that she could lay claim to was with her tag team partner. A tag team that had two matches under their belt, and a fifty per cent win rate. It was hardly Celia and Trevor.
But still, it was nice to be illuminated, and she enjoyed the narrative contraption that Lean had utilized to give her that. She only wished for a similar illumination in her own life, where scenes could not be replayed from different angles and perspectives. She only had her memory, and of the night in question that was understandably a little foggy. A lead pipe will do that to you. Division’s Rules was less than twenty-four hours away. Johnson waited: ready to protest his innocence and doubtlessly harboring a desire to make a name for himself. It was funny to think that only six months ago she had been in his shoes, and already the newcomers were looking to cement their own place at the expense of her and hers. And always, of course, Sullivan was there. If not at Johnson’s side, then his shadow loomed over them still. He was undoubtedly capable of something like this. And his own guilt was intrinsically linked to Johnson’s, if it could be proven. Sullivan wouldn’t have swung the pipe himself, she felt sure, and Johnson wouldn’t have acted alone. It was both or neither. And yet, she had spent the last six months convincing herself that Sullivan was doing his best to simply stay out of her way. Had she been wrong then, or was she wrong now? She made a note on the back of her mind’s polaroid of Sullivan: DON’T BELIEVE HIS LIES.
“Whatever your dream was,” Celia’s husband – attractive in his own way but certainly no Trevor Howard – asked her. Rachmaninoff swelled on the film’s soundtrack. The whirlwind romance was over, and all that was left a fading memory. “It wasn’t a very happy one, was it?”
Attacking Johnson last week had been… juvenile. Watching it back, as she had done numerous times, it had seemed like the act of a child flailing its arms. From the moment they had spoken, she found herself as suspicious of Parr and Gabrielle as she was of Johnson and, by extension, Sullivan. But Johnson was there, and he was a target. A good target, too. He may have taken a couple of falls since his uninspiring return, but he was still the King’s right-hand man. Simply by lashing out, she had managed to find herself as close the world champion as she had been in months. It would’ve been genius had it been planned, but now she found herself overwhelmed by the sudden proximity. The weight of the match suddenly seemed very real, and what at one stage felt a throw-away singles match had now spiraled into something of multi-faceted significance. It answered to her investigations into the assault, as well as the tag tournament, not to mention the overarching journey that would eventually lead to Sullivan.
Underneath her, the Buick’s engine roared into life, its headlights flicking on and projecting two cylindrical beams of light towards the screen. Michelle turned her head, and Marianne sat in the driver’s seat, her hands on the wheel.
She pictured Johnson’s face, and she judged him to be weak. If he was guilty, she would break him. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 9:36:47 GMT
Promo history - volume 38.
"From the Cannes Film Festival: THE ROYAL TURNBUCKLES!" (August 31st, 2020)
Open Promo. [to be added] |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 9:38:17 GMT
Promo history - volume 39.
"The Bomb Squad" (w/ Gerald Grayson) (September 4th, 2020).
Michelle von Horrowitz and Gerald Grayson def. The Afflicted (Michael Garcia and Kayden Knox) [Tag Team Match, The Elite Tag Team Classic: Redemption Bracket] (FWA: Fight Night). GERALD GRAYSON and MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
IN
”THE BOMB SQUAD.”
She had quite a number of things to occupy her mind.
Firstly, there was her match with Ty Johnson. Regardless of what the result was, she had gone into the match with a singular objective: to cajole (or, at worst, beat) a confession out of the young man. In that, of course, she had failed. She felt that he had been honest. She had manipulated the match in such a way that a confession would’ve saved his contract. The only motivation she could fathom for Johnson’s involvement in her attack was to further his own career. That motivation was taken away from him by FWA management: if he didn’t have a career, there was no need to progress one. She had provisionally crossed Sullivan off the list, too. The King wouldn’t get his own hands dirty, and what other pawns did he have? The match had turned out to be nothing more than a waste of time, and she felt no closer to the truth.
Secondly, there was the tournament, ever looming over them and ever dominating the horizon. Gerald was fine. More than fine, probably. She looked at her partner, sat on a chair in the corner of the locker room. He seemed as passive as ever. He wasn’t the problem: it was the tournament itself. How could she chase down the truth when her next half-dozen matches were already decided? Now that it had started, she of course wanted and intended to win. And so the can must be kicked down the road. The tournament had turned out to be nothing more than a waste of time, and she felt no closer to the truth.
Thirdly, there was the central mystery itself. Suspects had seemed plentiful to begin with, almost to the point where they were too manifold to investigate properly. But they had somewhat dwindled over the past few weeks. Grayson, of course, was all-but clear. The Johnson-Sullivan situation had somewhat resolved itself in an unsatisfactory manner. Eli Black had been cool under pressure. His cousin, Alyster, had seemingly lost complete interest in his borderline obsession, choosing instead to fawn over his new tag team partner instead. Of course, there was always Bell. At first, the idea had seemed remote and improbable, but with each passing week, with more reflection, it didn’t seem quite so abstract. A feeble mind is prone to cracking. But, with Bell making it perfectly clear that she had no interest in facing her, womano-y-womano, it was hard to follow this train of thought any further. This would require more consideration if she was to get any closer to the truth. But she was beginning to worry that, eventually, it would turn out to be nothing more than a waste of time.
“You do realize…” Grayson began, sitting on his chair in the corner, watching as Michelle’s pacing became more animated and more frantic. “That you won tonight, right?”
Michelle was momentarily snapped out of her malaise. She stared up at her partner, and was surprised that - for at least a few moments - she didn’t recognise the face looking back at her. Her mind drew a blank, and she struggled to place his gentle, young features. Their surroundings, in their snug little locker room with the sounds of the Barclays Center still permeating their concrete cell, brought her back to Earth like a comet.
“I had a feeling you’d be this way even after a win.” he said, standing from his seat. He grabbed the large bag placed behind the chair and opened it up. “Fortunately, I got you something that might cheer you up.”
Out of the bag came near-matching motorcycle helmets. Gerald’s helmet had a shiny, black coating with his logo stamped on the left side. Both sides of the helmet showed off fiery, red flames, and had their newly-chosen team name on the rear. He handed Michelle her helmet, similar to his but distinct in its design and its simplicity. It was a matte back, racing green text on the right hand side reading “MvH”. In a stylistic flourish, it had a blood-splattered horn sprouting from the left temple. Just like Gerald’s, it read it the Grayson and von Horrowitz Connection at the back.
“I was banking on you agreeing to our team name, so I’m glad I don’t look silly now that you have...” He flashed a big smile towards Michelle. “Helmets are the most important piece of equipment when going for a ride.”
“You calling me a devil?” she asked, looking at the horn. Gerald began sweating, looking to the heavens as if there were answers there that could please Michelle. “I’m kidding. That’s what you would call a joke. You taught me that, remember? I love it. Thank you.”
Gerald lets out a literal sigh of relief, so much so that it quickly develops into a nervous laugh.
“Ah, yeah... I’m glad you like it. Like I was saying before, having a helmet when you ride is important. Not only is it protective gear but in the right situations, it can be used as a weapon.”
Gerald pointed towards the sharp horn atop the helmet. Michelle appreciated the multi-functionality of it, and gave him a thankful nod.
They were interrupted by a buzzing sound emanating from one of the lockers, and both of the wrestlers turned towards it inquisitively. It was the obnoxious, distracting noise of a cell phone, repetitively summoning its owner with its incessant screech. Three rings. Four. She looked sharply at Grayson, willing him to put an end to it and answer his cell. He reached into his pocket and pulled his phone out, finding it silent and motionless. In a synchronised manner, both tilted their heads curiously towards the source of the ringing once again.
“Hello?” Michelle said tentatively, having crept across the room and collected the burner from its hiding place.
“Michelle. Gerald.”
The voice was quiet and calm, and more importantly instantly recognisable.
“It’s me: Lord Vincent.”
He allowed his words to linger for a moment, the two wrestlers standing either side of the phone. Grayson, after a brief shake of the head in his partner’s direction, took the cell out of her hand and introduced her to the speaker phone function.
“I will cut straight to the chase, seeing as you are pressed for time. You are, I assume, fully aware that I have a reputation, and a deserved one at that, for chaos. I have an appetite for the stuff. And, if you follow this thread through to its logical conclusion, you only get chaos on a wider scale. A wilder scale.”
Grayson and von Horrowitz locked eyes, the latter cocking an eyebrow suggestively. Gerald just shrugged.
“And look at where you are! You’re in New York City: one of the greatest cities in the world! What better place for my little games - games in which you two have been principal protagonists over the last few months - to reach its logical, ultimate conclusion?”
Another pause. Clearly, he enjoyed the mystery. The suspense.
“And so, I have set a bomb somewhere in the Barclays Centre. A Massive Incendiary Kick-ass Explosive device, to be precise. I’m not going to tell you where: that would be too easy. But it’s there, if you know where to look. And plenty of people do. They’re staring right at it. I think you have about an hour. Until the show ends, to be exact. Good luck!”
The call ended, but Grayson stared down at the handset for a few moments longer, frantically pressing buttons as if that might do something. When he realised the pointlessness, he stuffed the phone into his pocket and stared up at Michelle like a little lost boy.
“What do we do?!” he asked, beginning to pace slightly, suddenly lost in thought.
“What do you think we do?!” she asked, as if the question needed no answer. She provided one anyway. “We get the fuck out of here!”
The woman collected her rucksack and slung it over her shoulder, ready to make a hasty and decisive exit. The young man planted his feet firmly on the ground, unwilling to make way.
“We can’t just leave!” he says. “I’ve got friends here. Family, even! We have to find the bomb...”
“And then do what?” she asked, puzzlement plain on her visage. “Do you have any bomb disposal experience? Was that one of your adrenaline junkie phases? What a rush...”
“We have to at least try...”
“That’s your problem, Gerald. You’re always trying.”
She shook her head, but - in a rather defeatist manner - took a seat on the chair that Grayson had previously occupied. She found it noteworthy that, when confronted with the idea of an explosive as opposed to their current professional trajectories, their body language had inverted. She now waited, calm and indifferent, as he paced frantically around the locker room.
“We don’t even know where it is,” she said, whilst checking how many cigarettes she had left. A disappointing two. “They’re staring right at it... what does that even mean?!”
There was a moment’s silence, but for the sounds from the arena. They could hear the opening notes of Judas playing on the PA system, a resounding, unequivocal smog of derision instantly descending upon the ring.
That was it!
_-*-_-*-_
“You really think we should be doing this?” Grayson hesitantly asked. With their mission laid out before them, Grayson and von Horrowitz had made their way to the barricade, standing amongst the front row of the audience. Upon arrival, they had made sure to conceal themselves with oversized hoodies. Michelle had one eye on the ring and the other on a young, female fan, who had begun staring at the team upon their arrival at ringside. She adjusted her hood, ensuring the majority of her features were covered.
“No: I absolutely do not think we should be doing this. But we’ve come this far. No surprise that we’re up shit creek with Lord Vincent as our principal paddler...”
The frustration in Michelle’s voice was apparent, and Gerald didn’t blame her. Michelle caught herself and attempted to regain composure. The main event between Sullivan and Garcia had begun, and the roars and jeers from the crowd were the scene’s soundtrack.
“Another night, another championship opportunity for this oaf,” she hissed whilst folding her arms together. She leant over the barricade, watching on as the King rolled out of the ring and began to circle it, taking his time to find an opening. The young fan to their side was still staring directly at them. ”You’d think these people would be sick of it. Or at least that Knox would be…”
“I don’t like it either. I can’t imagine what happens when Knox realizes he’s just a pawn being controlled by Garcia. He might implode.” Grayson shook his head in disappointment. “Are you really surprised, though? Garcia has always had that desire to control someone only to elevate himself. He’s barely capable of acting alone, it seems: he relies on others to get him to where he wants to be.”
“There’s still hope for Knox,” Michelle said, watching on as Sullivan slid back into the ring. He was tentative, not willing to engage with the monster directly just yet. It was probably wise: Garcia was fucking massive. And really, when you boiled him down, took into account his accomplishments and achievements, and viewed his career through a retrospective lens, those two words were about perfect: fucking massive. Not particularly smart, or fast, or respectable… but hey, at least he was bigger than most people. That was something. ”But you said it yourself. Knox is just a pawn. He falls when his master does.”
“Despite the damage that Knox has caused, I hope that us eliminating him and Garcia from this tournament is the wake up call he needs,” Gerald paused to consider the ramifications of his words. ”Sure, that’ll make him more focused on my X-Division title, but I welcome it. Be it Knox or Eli or anyone else that’s after my title, I want them at their best. And Knox’s best? It’s when he thinks for himself and does what needs to be done for his own sake. I look forward to doing battle with that man.”
”It’s not really our place to save him,” she said, watching on as Sullivan and Garcia began to circle the ring once again. ”He’s just one lost soul in a company full of them. Think of what you’ve seen tonight. Name any match, and you will find a wrestler in it who is lost and in need of saving. Knox is no different from any of those, despite his firm belief that his sullen and off-beat mannerisms somehow make him different. Garcia, too. You think he acts the way that he does because he’s happy?”
She smirked at the idea, regarding the bubbling tension within Garcia’s hulking frame.
”You can’t save them all.”
Grayson momentarily removed his eyes from the ring, looking over at Michelle instead. Her sadness was clear and deep.
“So what’s the game plan here? We can’t exactly go out there and stop the match, can we?” Gerald asked. “They probably wouldn’t even believe us...”
“Just follow my lead.”
The young girl who had been staring at them was beginning to pull hard at her father’s sleeve, trying to get his attention and turn it onto the nearby wrestlers. That made Michelle uneasy, and when the girl began to point at them, she searched even harder for an opening. At that very moment, Sullivan charged at a cornered Garcia… only for Big Mike to lift him up and over the top rope and onto the floor! He landed on the opposite side of the ring to where our heroes stood, and the fans, the stage-hands, the official, and Garcia himself were all for this moment staring directly away from them.
“NOW!”
Being the athletic demons that they were, Grayson and von Horrowitz hopped the barricade and immediately crawled under the ring apron. Grayson signalled that he was going left, which prompted von Horrowitz to approach the ring’s underbelly from the right hand side. She had reached the middle with no sign of Grayson, and as she stared between a pair of tables and a trash can she noticed that smoke was beginning to fill the area. Just then, Grayson appeared through the smoke.
“So… I might’ve triggered a faux bomb… some sort of smoke screen...” Their coughing only intensified as they crawled onwards, trying in vain to clear the smoke in front of them.
“That would’ve been way more helpful BEFORE we made our way under the ring....”
Even through the smoke, von Horrowitz could see Grayson give her the side-eye. Grayson began placing his hands on the pine above him, and found a little slit where he could remove a board. Grayson and von Horrowitz looked at each other in bewilderment: in front of them was a small bomb. It was branded with the MIKE 2020 production logo, small white font beneath informing us that the device was manufactured in Pittsburgh, PA. There was always the vague hope that Lord Vincent hadn’t been entirely serious. The Blackbird was that sort of man. But there was no denying the truth of this particular tale.
“Not gonna lie, my vision is still blurry from that smoke bomb basically exploding in my face. It might be best if you defused the bomb.”
“You’re closer…” Michelle replied, suddenly a little more nervous now that she could see the red blinking light on the small device. From the side of it sprouted three wires: one red, one white, and one black.
“Which wire should I cut?” he asked, regarding each of them individually.
“I think you should cut… all of them,” she answered.
“That’s not how it works in the movies…”
“This isn’t a movie…”
After a light but effective and commanding jab to the upper arm, Gerald found the will that he was searching for. With shaking hands, he wrapped his fingers around the chords and gave them a firm yank…
… and the blinking red light turned into a green one, and both of them let out a massive sigh of relief.
“Well, that was surprisingly easy…”
Above them, through the pines of the ring, they could hear the tos and fros of the main event. They lay back for a moment, listening to the impacts as Sullivan and the much larger Garcia were periodically slammed into the mat. For a moment, this was the only noise that they heard, but soon enough that was halted by the harsh, cold buzzing of a cell phone. Grayson took the burner of his pocket and placed it between them, answering the call from the withheld number.
“Very good, boys and girls!” a familiar voice began. "You know, I always make sure I take out insurance policies, just for occasions like this. There's a second MIKE 2020 device. The Time Warner Centre, 42nd floor. Hurry! You just might catch the fireworks!"
_-*-_-*-_
They had no time to take a break. The next explosion would be happening soon and after what they just encountered with the first bomb, who knew what they’d face this second time around. The duo immediately hopped onto the bike, Gerald at the handles and Michelle clutching at his waist. Gerald kicked the brake to the side and in one fluid motion, the two were off.
“So… you ready for one more?” Gerald questioned his tag team partner.
“This good guy stuff is exhausting,” Michelle said, letting out a short sigh.
“Eh, you’ll get used to it.” Gerald responded whilst almost running them into a moving car. He managed to swerve out of its path, their knees grazing the road as they roared on across the bridge. Manhattan was rearing up in front of them. “You know, I can’t help thinking about Knox. Him being manipulated like this, it just isn’t right.”
He looked back at Michelle, who didn’t offer anything in response. She only clung to him.
“If you’ve seen Knox lately, he’s on edge all the time. More than he used to be. Having Garcia as his tag team partner might’ve been the worst thing to happen to him.”
A blaring horn went off as Gerald raced in-between two container trucks.
“Knox wasn’t where he needed to be in the first place but when you add Garcia into the mix, it just spells trouble for all parties involved. I hate to say this, but I’m disappointed at how Knox is letting this happen.”
One of the trucks swerved out of their path as they took a sharp left corner, almost causing a pile-up at the road’s intersection.
“I don’t think now is the time to be talking about this,” Michelle said, clinging steadfastly onto his waist. “You need to get a fucking side-car!”
“That’s why we need to kick them out of this tournament. I sympathize with Knox. Things haven’t been going his way. Then here comes Garcia seemingly offering him some direction when in fact, his motivations are only for his own gain.”
The boy-wonder sat up straight and maneuvered through several cars consecutively. Michelle squeezed him hard, planting herself in the bike’s seat whilst gripping him tightly, almost as if she was preparing to hit a German suplex. He took in the air, basking in the sunlight. The little things sure looked good right now, in spite of what the duo had gone through already. But this hope was short-lived
“Gerald! KNOX missile on our six. Just keep doing what you’re doing. Same pace, same trajectory.”
Gerald takes a quick peek at the missile, his eyes widening behind his visor. His natural impulse was to speed up and try to create more distance between them and the missile.
“You sure?”he asked, motoring down 6th Avenue towards Times Square, and keeping one eye firmly on the oncoming missile. “It’s locked onto us!”
“I’m sure. Don’t… change… course…”
The missile grew larger, its tail bright and hot against the night’s sky…
Gerald’s eyes narrow, bracing himself for the inevitable impact…
And then the KNOX missile flew past them, exploding in an impotent rage against the sidewalk. The windows of a nearby shop shattered, and Grayson swerved to keep the shards from his tires. They left the ground as they kicked up the kerb and onto the sidewalk, Grayson getting lower in the seat and upping the pace. They swerved and screeched through Rockefeller Plaza, leaving the shadow of the Empire State Building behind them.
“How did you know it would miss?” he asked, motoring onwards towards the Time Warner Centre.
“KNOckout Xplosion missiles are all like that,” she began, checking the time on Gerald’s wristwatch as they sped towards their destination. They had eleven minutes until the end of the show, by her estimation. The urgency of it began to hit her. “They have them literally everywhere. You know the sort: they make a loud noise and a big bang, and can genuinely do a lot of damage. But they're rather simple devices, and invariably end up missing their actual target and just making a lot of mess..."
“You think there’s more?” Gerald asked, hammering the throttle as they sped between a bus and a Chevrolet, powering on northwards.
“There’s always more,” Michelle said, closing her eyes and blocking out the mayhem that surrounded them. “You have to remember that we’re in crisis, here. Time is against us. The immediacy and the gravitas of our current situation is fueling our decisions. This is when the ]KNOX missile defense system is most useful. It’s used to exploit the surrounding chaos, and inevitably its singular focus will create just enough damage to be considered impressive and worthwhile. But, really? The fires will peter out eventually. Erratic and ultimately impotent.”
"We're running out of time," Gerald said, doing his best to push thoughts of more missiles from his mind. "You think Lord Vincent will give us an extension?"
As they reached the Time Warner Centre, they hopped off the bike and took their helmets off, before storming into the building. Gerald pressed the lift button and the doors opened up, the young man promptly requesting floor forty two and waiting for the door to close behind them. One of the security guards in the lobby shouted that the building was closed, but they were safely locked away in the vestibule by the time he could reach them. The pair were enveloped in undeniably serene but none-the-less infuriating elevator music. Michelle tapped her foot against the floor impatiently. Gerald watched the numbers increase on the screen above the door, willing them to move a little faster.
Fifteen… twenty…
“Did you see that the Elite lost?” Gerald asked, uncomfortably filling the awkward silence.
Twenty-five...
Michelle nodded.
Thirty...
“If we beat the Affliction then we’ll have them next,” Gerald added, folding his arms and continuing to watch the numbers increase.
Thirty-five....
“Would be sort of cool to knock the champions out of the tournament.”
Forty...
“Yup,” Michelle said, preparing herself…
Forty-two!
The door pinged as it opened, and the two bowled over a pair of security guards as they emerged into a large, open room. The ceiling was supported by perhaps a dozen pillars, but there was a distinct lack of furniture and fixtures in the space itself. As Grayson and von Horrowitz straightened themselves up following the impact, they noticed only two objects situated in the middle of the room: an old, red telephone with a rotary dial, and next to it a notepad. Surrounding the items were perhaps a half-dozen guys, all big and burly and with SECURITY written on their backs. They attempted to step towards the guards, but a hand held onto Michelle’s ankle from behind. One of the downed security men was attempting to stop her passing, but she stomped hard on his wrist, eliciting a high-pitched yelp and an immediate release…
… … …
Standing in the middle of a circle of vanquished security guards, the two wrestlers momentarily surveyed their handiwork. The groans and moans of the fallen, nursing a myriad of rapidly inflicted injuries, were punctuated only by the gently quickened respiration of the protagonists.
“Where is it?” Michelle asked, suddenly aware of the slow, ominous beeping noise coming from somewhere in the room. Grayson seemed to know, walking over to a specific pillar in the south-west corner, kneeling down next to a device that had been attached to the base with masking tape. He reached down to it and pulled three wires out of its side, Michelle looking on over his shoulder as the blinking red light turned into a solid green. She couldn’t help but smile, the young man sitting down against the wall-to-wall windows that looked out southwards over the city. He let out another relieved sigh and another nervous laugh...
It didn’t last long. The phone began to ring, causing the duo to hasten towards its source. The noise echoed around the large, empty room. Grayson remained on his feet, keeping a watchful eye on the incapacitated company they were presently keeping, whilst the woman took a seat next to the phone. Cautiously, she picked up the receiver, and waited…
“You know, I get asked the same question, over and over again...”
It was the head puppeteer… their primary tormenter... the Blackbird. Her eyes flashed towards Grayson, and she witnessed an immediate unease pass over his countenance.
“Why do you even do half of the shit that you do?”
Lord Vincent let out a slow, ominous chuckle. It seemed to her that he was about to answer his own question, and so she elected to remain silent and let him.
“It’s a good question, but it says more about the person asking than the person answering. It shows limitations. A lack of creativity. Because of course, if you’re capable of getting it, you almost certainly already do.”
There, he stopped, and there was something immediately sinister about the phone call. The hairs on the back of Michelle’s neck began to stand up. Her blood ran cold.
“That wasn’t the last MIKE device,” she stated. It wasn’t a question.
“Ding ding ding! We have a winner,” the Blackbird continued. She balanced the receiver between her jaw and her shoulder, retrieving her last cigarette. She struggled to light it, the gas in her lighter running low and her hands shaking as she brought it up to her lips. “You know, I always thought you’d work it out eventually... It's just a shame that you're running out of time to solve your other mystery. You could've just asked me."
"Where is the last device?", she asked, but her voice faltered, belying the sense of hopelessness that resided in the pit of her stomach.
"That's just the thing about the Massive Incendiary Kick-Ass Explosive device. Or the MIKE 2020, as I believe it’s known on the street. They may be cheap, they may be messy. But… they have their own brand of resilience. And, of course, there’s the fact that I am the man who is using them, and I have a lot of them to use. And when a man like me gets his hands on something like that. Well… I think you ought to take a look in my notebook."
She dutifully obliged and, emboldened by the rash and sudden exit of the security guards, Grayson read over her shoulder. It was, they found, a list of FWA strongholds up and down the west coast, starting with the Barclays Centre before listing recognizable arenas in Philadelphia, in Atlanta… Richmond, Norfolk, and then sweeping westwards into Chicago and Detroit. Every memorable stadium that the Fantasy Wrestling Alliance had sold out over the past decade was featured. From sea to shining sea. Michelle looked at Gerald nervously, and then flicked over the page. Their eyes traversed yet more addresses, but this time of a more personal variety. Listed at the top was the studio she still owned in New Orleans, as well as the family home (eventually inherited after a series of tragedies) back in Rotterdam. Third was Gerald’s apartment in Raleigh. They weren't the only targets: Sullivan's Irish castle, Connelly's Los Angeles penthouse, Alyster's introverted paradise in San Dimas. Even Cyrus was listed as owning property at Number 616, the Long and Winding Road. Perhaps most unsettlingly, each of the entries had been struck through with a thin, careful pencil line.
"Well? Do you see?"
The man on the other end of the line cut through the quiet.
"The odd MIKE 2020 device may be foiled or defused. Others may be duds, and go off with a fizz as opposed to the desired bang. You yourself may personally - not to mention dutifully - put a stop to a great many of my attempts to unleash MIKE 2020 upon the world. But that will not stop me. That will not stop him. So long as I live and breathe and have my finger upon the button, and the KNOX missile defense system at my disposal, I will continue to give him the opportunity to explode. And take down this entire, miserable company with him.”
Gerald’s eyes closed, as if he sensed the futility of their situation. Michelle sucked frantically at her last cigarette.
“I have planted thousands of MIKE 2020s around this city… around this world... with one purpose in mind. Chaos, my lovelies. Now, watch the doom that I have spelled out for you. Embrace how inevitable it is.”
The line went dead, and Michelle dropped the receiver to the ground. She stood up, and pulled Gerald up to his feet next to her. The cigarette was still unlit, and she allowed it to fall onto the carpet, landing next to the phone and the notepad. The pair slowly walked southwards, towards the large window that adorned one of the four walls of the empty office block. The city stretched out before them, and in the distance the light show began. Soon enough, the entire city was ablaze, and the sky itself split open, fire roaring through the crack and raining down upon them. They held hands, and watched it all fall apart…
_-*-_-*-_
She was awoken by the first morning rays poking their obnoxious heads through the window of her motel room. She found herself instantly massaging her temples in an inevitably impotent attempt to relieve the pressure applied to her brain by the hangover. Weird dream, she thought, struggling through the first of the day’s coughing fits. Her mouth tasted like shit, and she lamented not brushing her teeth last night. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 9:39:45 GMT
Promo history - volume 40.
"EAST/WEST, THEN/NOW" (w/ Gerald Grayson) (September 21st, 2020).
Michelle von Horrowitz and Gerald Grayson def. The Division (Trevor Ocean and Noah Stocke) [Tag Team Match, The Elite Tag Team Classic: Redemption Bracket] (FWA: Fight Night). GERALD GRAYSON and MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
”EAST/WEST, THEN/NOW.”
_-*-_-*-_
RALEIGH, NORTH CAROLINA.
October, 2064.
Entering through the large, black gates that surround the compound, Jim parked his car in the designated spot for visitors. Earlier, a voice through a comms box had told him to park on the right side of the entrance. As soon as he got out of his car, Jim wiped his forehead as the wet, cloudy weather of North Carolina continued to get the best of him. He reached into his coat pocket and opened up a piece of paper with the instructions that were sent to him the day before.
Walking through the compound, Jim saw several large homes separated from one another. The walking paths were so immense that there were signs to direct newcomers towards their destination. Coming to an impasse, Jim again looked at the instructions he was given. He turned the paper over to compare the hand-drawn picture of a decently-sized, one-story home with big windows at the front. It seemed like an ordinary house, but the blue roof was something that you didn’t see everyday. After the long walk, the closer Jim got, the bigger the house became. He finally arrived at the doorstep and took a bit of a breather before knocking three times. A few seconds after the third knock, a voice came through an as-yet unnoticed comms box.
“Please come in and have a seat in the living room. I’ll be with you shortly.”
The voice belonged to an elderly man. White and affluent, but not untarnished by time. Jim’s career was in listening to people, and he had acquired certain skills along the way. He made his way inside and noted the high ceilings and big windows that allowed rays of sunlight in. He entered the living room and put his bag down on the couch before taking the liberty of looking around at the pictures that were hung and placed on various shelves. He picked up one particular frame that housed a photograph of two men. Brothers, surely. One was in a suit and another was in ring gear, both with big smiles on their faces. He picked up another frame to see an individual soaring through the heavens to hit what looks like a moonsault onto their opponent on the canvas. Just then, Jim heard a door close. He put the photo down and quickly took his seat on the couch.
CRACK!
Jim jumped to his feet upon hearing some glass smash against the floor. He immediately ran into the kitchen and saw an elderly man sweeping up the fallen glass cup. After the mess was taken care of, the old man finally noticed Jim.
“Oh I’m sorry about that. Just my age showing again. Help me out over here with some tea.”
Jim poured some tea for both men into two tall glasses and brought it over to the living room. It sure looked like the old man needed a cane but eventually, and importantly under his own strength, he made it to the living room. The two men sat down opposite of each other.
“I’m sorry for the spill earlier.” the old man laughed. “Now, I believe you have some questions for me, correct?
“No need to apologize, Mr. Grayson. I’m sorry for not helping. And that is correct, sir. I have some questions for you.” Jim did a quick, deferential bow to signal how apologetic he was. He knew that Grayson, along with the woman, had spent many of his later years in Japan. Gerald appreciated the gesture. Jim took out his phone to record the conversation, placing it on the table between them. “Mr. Grayson, you’re most known for your time in the FWA. I guess the sensible place to start would be at the beginning. How did you get your start? What are your recollections of that time in your life?”
Gerald took a few seconds, slowly mulling over the journalist’s question.
“You know Jim, the FWA saved my life. I had no direction. All I was doing at the time before I entered FWA was riding my bike and seeing where it took me. My time in FWA was a good one. So many memories that I can remember and probably some that escape my mind… I remember the constant travel. At the time, I loved it. I saw all these new places but as more years in my career passed, I started to dislike it. It was very tedious. I think that’s one good word to describe my time in FWA – tedious.”
Jim began writing notes as Gerald continued to talk.
“I remember winning titles and I remember losing titles. But a memory that hasn’t escaped me yet was when I was in a tag team tournament. I remember facing other put-together teams such as Krash and Mike Parr... and Kayden Knox and Mike Garcia. Boy, could those teams do some damage.” He feigned a small wince. “I can remember one occasion with Knox and Garcia. Messed up situation, really. Knox and Garcia were a hell of a duo but for all the wrong reasons. There was no partnership to be had there. They were the definition of a makeshift team. In fact, the team seemed to only benefit Garcia, while Knox did all the work. I remember after beating them on an episode of Fight Night, they resorted to attacking me backstage. Little did they know that that would light a fire in me. Not gonna lie, though, when they acted like a real team - they were dangerous. But in the end, they were no match for us.
“I also remember coming up short against Krash and Mike Parr. What a team. It was a dream match of mine to go up against Krash or Mike Parr. Both at once? Boy… I was still considered pretty new to FWA. Going up against opponents the caliber of Krash and Mike Parr? It left me starstruck. I felt really bad after the match. I’m surprised Michelle still talked to me after that loss.
“But in the end, Michelle and I were a great pair. Michelle could brawl with the best of them and I would take them out using my high-flying ability. It was a natural match.”
A smile came about on Gerald’s face as he reminisced about his old tag team partner. Jim was dotting down some notes before looking up at Gerald.
“Oh yeah: the infamous von Horrowitz and Grayson Connection. How was it? How was Michelle?”
Things were silent for a moment. A short sigh escaped the mouth of Gerald.
“Yes, we were tag team partners.”
Jim took a moment here, seemingly jostling in his head if he was going to further the conversation.
“Right there, you let out a sigh at the mention of Michelle von Horrowitz. Any reason for that?”
A smirk crept onto the face of Gerald - remembering all the shenanigans he got into with (and because of) Michelle.
“Ah yes, Michelle. She was quite a wild one, I can tell you that. She was a great tag team partner. Was she my favorite person in FWA? Of course not. Michelle was more of a loner and when she got paired up with me, things weren’t rainbows and sunshine and flowers. She liked to talk about flowers quite a lot. But that picture couldn’t be further from the truth.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
Again, Gerald fell into a thoughtful silence. The reporter attempted to pry a response from him, at first clearing his throat, and then inquisitively repeating the wrestler’s name - - the former wrestler’s name. Jim looked at Gerald’s hands, wrinkled and weathered and shaking with age. His clothes hung loosely to him, recent weight loss giving him an overall gaunt look. His face was pockmarked. But his eyes were the same as they had always been: large, dark brown, and piercing, and more than anything else innocent. Jim stared into them, beholden to their power, swimming freely and gaily in the deep wells…
_-*-_-*-_
TOKYO HARBOUR, JAPAN.
July, 2057. Seven years earlier.
Far up in the sky, the squawks of crows echoed through the air and fell upon the ears of the crowd that had garrisoned in the harbor. Some of the birds had come to rest atop the city’s generator columns, and were regarding the scene below with a careful and healthy mistrust. Suddenly, the blaring of a nearby foghorn punctuated the scene, and the birds frantically flew away into a different part of town.
The cruise liners and ships and yachts that riddled the harbor were all sleek and luxurious and very Japanese in design. Of course, the standard coal-fueled tankers that would have once stood here were a thing of the regrettable past. Now, the hull of the nearest ship was covered in glossy solar panels, the energy from which were used to power the bars, restaurants, and virtual reality lounges on deck. The boat itself was motored by the quantum reactor near the stern, and was capable of traversing the Pacific in just over an hour. This was a pleasure-liner, though, and would take its time to tug along towards Thailand.
In the foreground of the image, an elderly woman - her frailties now plain upon her personage - stood at arm’s length from a male companion. His back was crooked, the bruises that still covered his whole body - inside and outside - causing his posture to revolt against him. The woman lifted a cigarette to her mouth, taking a long drag and then allowing the smoke to linger between her pursed lips. She rifled around in her purse, retrieving her ticket for the S.S. Anne. When it was safely within her wrinkled hands, she allowed the cigarette to fall onto the floor, stubbing it out with a heavy, black boot.
“Are you sure you need to do this?” he asked, as unsure now in his old age as he was in his youth.
“I don’t have to do anything,” she answered, meeting his gaze. It had taken him months, years even, to reach the stage where he could return her gaze. She found his tears heartbreaking.
He spoke again, and she replied, but the words were lost amongst another blaring foghorn, and were carried away upon the wind. They never saw one another again.
_-*-_-*-_
RAYONG, THAILAND.
November, 2064. Seven years later.
She was led through the room by a short, portly attendant who wore a heavy, black chut thai. They passed several lanes of bamboo furniture, adorned by thick, soft cushions along with the occasional lounging patron. On top of the tables were glasses containing various fluids, amber and clear and black, as well as discarded boxes of cigarettes and constantly refreshed ash trays. As the portly attendant and the elderly woman walked past, a young Thai girl cut them off to disappear into a booth, drawing the curtain firmly behind her. Michelle continued on, the attendant pointing her towards a bed that had been set up for her. They’d placed enough pillows and throws on it for the Elephant Man to sleep comfortably. She moved a couple of them away from her spot and then parked her rear onto the low and disappointing firm mattress, and with a concerted effort, she swung her legs around to lay herself down.
There was very little noise emanating from roughly a dozen visible patrons, all of whom seemed instead content to stare off into the distance in an aloof and ultimately pretentious manner, as if their own thoughts were self-evidently more important than the other people in the room. Whatever sound there was emerged from the soft jazz band that had assembled on a raised plinth in one corner, a double bassist laying down a low rhythm for the trombonist and trumpeter to rift over. Behind them, an ancient Thai man - almost doubled over with age - tapped away with a keen smile at a drum kit. The aroma was unmistakable, filling her nostrils and fogging her head. She closed her eyes, allowing the sounds and smells to take her over.
When she opened them again, the attendant had returned and had sat himself on a stool in front of her. He had prepared the pipe and was holding it out towards her. A candle had been positioned within a tall, thin glass, and inserted into a small fissure in its side was the active ingredient. The thin and frail woman took the object from him, proceeding to hold one end to her lips and positioning the large, conical bowl over the top of the glass. Slowly but eagerly, she inhaled, closing her eyes once again and listening to the music.
…
…
… She found herself standing upon the edge of a small lake, regarding the sharp blues of its surface and the vivid greens of the grassland that surrounded it. In the distance was a dense, wide forest, the gnarled tree tops stretching out to the foothills of the mountains that dominated the horizon.
On the other side of the lake, she saw two dark figures carrying what seemed to be a large crate towards the edge of the lake. When they came into sharper focus, she realised that they were fighting over it. Tugging on one end was Bell Connelly, whilst Kevin Cromwell ferociously yanked at the opposite one. All-the-while, they were stumbling and staggering, growing larger as they came closer and closer to the edge. Eventually, inevitably, Cromwell lost his footing in the mud, and tripped over the lip. He maintained his grip on the edge of the crate, pulling it in after him. Connelly fell and landed with a thud, before rolling into the lake. The two began to sink, the crate itself floating for a moment before beginning to disintegrate. The large wooden box on top cracked open, and large quantities of tea-leaves began to wash over the surface of the lake. As they reacted with the water, plumes of green and pink and yellow smoke were sent up into the atmosphere, and through them sailed a ship with a black mast.
In no time at all, the young woman - perhaps thirty years of age - couldn’t see more than a few centimetres in front of her. The smoke filled her eyes and caused her to squint, standing perfectly still so as to not to accidentally join Connelly and Cromwell in the water. The smell of the leaves filled her nostrils, and from the deeps, she heard the sound of a plug being removed from its hole. Eventually, the oppressive feelings that the smoke brought about in her began to dissipate, and all that was left was a dizzy sensation in her head and in her stomach. She felt safe enough to open her eyes.
She was just in time to see the last of the water swirl counterclockwise around the open plughole and disappear forever. For the first time, she noticed that a staircase had been carved into the rock before her and led steadily down into the basin. In the centre of it was a long, oak table. She began her descent, at first carefully, as if the whole scene might collapse around her, but when she was convinced of the stability of it, she was soon enough taking them two at a time. She emerged at the foot of it and onto the lake’s bed, and as she left footprints in the mud and marched towards the table, she began to hear soft jazz echo from the high and suddenly very steep basin walls. A drum kit, a double bass, a trombone, and a trumpet. It became harder and harder to ignore.
Upon the table’s surface was a half-dozen - no, five - serving trays, their lids yet unturned. The young woman regarded each of them carefully and then, assessing the situation to be safe, turned over the first of the lids. Staring back at her was the head of Krash, the FWA North American Champion, which had been placed atop a bed of leaves. His eyes were open and he blinked.
“Good evening, Michelle!” he started, a smile being suggested beneath his furrowing moustache. “Or is it morning? Hang on a moment, let me check.”
He sniffed at the leaves that encircled his head.
“Ah, basil. Yes, it must be evening. It’s difficult to tell sometimes, so you have to have a good nose on you. You know?”
She struggled to process what he was saying, and so instead just nodded at him. She turned away and lifted the second lid. The King, looking resplendent with a golden crown, stared up at her unhappily.
“Dinner already?” he asked, glancing away from the woman and towards his fellow champion. “It’s too early. This is too early for dinner.”
A third lid was removed, revealing the leaf-bedded head of her tag team partner. He had his tried and trusted grin plastered on his face, and he blinked up with big, dark brown eyes at the young woman before him.
“If I ma - -”
“Krash… Krash...” the King interrupted. “Tell them all that it’s too early for dinner. Especially the new one.”
She uncovered the final two trees, regarding the faces of Noah Stocke and Trevor Ocean. They scowled in much the same way as the King had when they realised who had awoken them from their suggested slumber.
”Oh,” Trever said.
”It’s you,” Noah almost spat.
The young woman noticed that there was a seat at the head of the table, and dutifully began to occupy it. In front of her was set a knife, a fork, and an empty plate.
“Now come, gentlemen,” Krash began, smiling in an accommodating fashion towards the tag team. “That was a long time ago.”
“Still feels fresh to me,” Trevor said. Noah finally gave in to temptation and spat over the edge of the table. He proceeded to shake his head, refusing to remove his eyes from the interloper. “I wonder if she even remembers it. That was our tournament, after all.”
“Just because it is named after you,” the woman said, carefully regarding each of the team in turn. “Does not make it yours.”
“You might have found our table, but that doesn’t entitle you to speak at it,” Trevor said. The young woman got the impression that Noah would’ve given him a high five, if he had the hands required to do so. “The greatest tag team championship reign in the modern era. How long was it, Noah?”
“Depends how you measure it,” Noah answered. “Until we were eliminated from the tournament or until somebody else had won it. Either way, it’s over two hundred days…”
“Over two hundred days!” Trevor repeated, the pride swelling up inside of what body he had left. “And then a bunch of no-chemistry, no-history pairings are thrown together, and we’re expected to what? Applaud this? Just accept that tag team wrestling isn’t a thing in its own right… a craft in its own right? That it didn’t matter that we’d spent most of our lives working together to perfect this art?”
“Well,” the young woman started, deliberately and cautiously. Her arms were folded on the table in front of her, and when she stared down at her hands, she was relieved to find them unwrinkled, her youth restored to her at her time of need. “It didn’t matter.”
The tag team simply blinked back at her. Krash, Gerald, and the King nervously glanced from one end of the table to the other, waiting for tempers to spill over.
“You what?!” Noah asked.
“None of it did matter, really, did it?” the young woman repeated. Each of the tag team champions opened their mouths in turn, but came well short of uttering anything in response. The woman smiled at nobody in particular, perhaps only to herself. She leant forward, so that they could better hear her words. “Who did you lose to? Devin Golden and Randy Ramon? Two men who despised one another until a random drawing put them in the same corner of the ring. And they threw you to the kerb like yesterday’s garbage. I mean, it was easy, when you look back at it.
“You know, I seem to remember that it was you two that asked for this tournament,” she continued, beginning to hit her stride in spite of her peculiar surroundings. “I have this vague recollection of you becoming bored of the same old matches. The United Alliance… the New Breed… the Valendars… Such an illustrious string of victories. We were all very proud of you. And more than ever when you opened the challenge up to the entire roster. And now you want to bitch and whine about the minutiae of the set-up? You want to impose Division’s Rules on the very guests you welcomed to your table? You bit off more than you could chew. And you proved that none of it mattered.”
“Now, now,” Krash began, his moustache dancing across his upper lip. “Can we not have one dinner that doesn’t descend into chaos?!”
“Well, if you and Gerald could stop inviting such unwelcome guests.”
“I don’t know if you’re referring to Alyster or Mike,” Krash shot back, doing his best to remain calm in spite of the underlying tension between him and the King. “But if you were only a little more welcoming I’m sure we could have had a lovely time.”
The two continued to bicker, and suddenly it became apparent that Gerald was trying to summon her attention with a psst. Her eyes flickered over to him, but she was resolute in keeping them fixed upon the tag team champions. He pssted at her again, and reluctantly she addressed him. He motioned at her to lean in close, and she obliged.
“You know, I’ve had some ideas,” he whispered. “For the dream sequence.”
“For the dream sequence?” the young woman asked.
“You know, the dream sequence. The hallucination... whatever you want to call it,” he said, keeping his volume down in order to cut the others out of their conversation. “You told me to come up with ideas.”
“Okay,” she said, keeping one eye on Trevor and Noah across the table. “Hit me.”
“I’m thinking something to do with Summers, you know?” he said. “How did all that end? Did he leave or did they kick him out?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” she answered. “What’s that got to do with this?”
“Something like: You had a good run this summer, now go join Summers on vacation.”
“Maybe,” she answered, thinking it over. “But I don’t really want to acknowledge their good run. I’m trying to poke holes in that. That seems more like something that you would say.”
“You’re right,” he said, with a nod.
“What are you two whispering about?” Trevor asked, projecting his voice across the dinner table and causing the young woman to sit up straight. “You weren’t brought here so that you could collude with the lowest amongst us. That is not our purpose. You must remember, Michelle, that you are only a guest at this table. And four out of five of us is a firm majority. It has been decided that there will be no dinner for you tonight. You are here only to be warned, that we are united against the idea of you being offered a seat. And, along with the Blackbird, we will continue to do all in our power to keep your stomach empty.”
Michelle couldn’t help but scoff. She looked over at Gerald, who had turned almost as white as her. She assumed that he was the dissenting vote, but didn’t verify the assumption.
“Have you worked out what the theme is yet?” she asked. There was a nervous silence, and the heads looked uncomfortably at one another with sidewards glances. When it appeared no response was forthcoming, she picked up the slack herself. “This week, my tulips, the theme is endings. All stories - and, make no mistake about it, that’s exactly what this is - have an ending. The story of Michelle von Horrowitz and Gerald Grayson will meander along for many years, in some fashion or another. Our own, individual narratives will stumble onwards for a few more years. But your story? The tale of Trevor Ocean and Noah Stocke? That ended a long time ago.”
“You should never have invited her,” the King said, looking pointedly at Grayson. If he had legs, she felt sure he’d be kicking him under the table. “I told you that you shouldn’t invite her.”
“Now, now, David,” Krash put in, trying to sound accommodating. “We might as well hear her out.”
“Please, you didn’t want her here any more than I did.”
“Psst,” Gerald said through pursed lips, prompting her to lean in close. “How about this line: don’t call it a comeback, kid!”
“No,” the young woman said, shaking her head and keeping her eyes fixed across the table. Noah Stocke had begun chewing on some of his basil, but Trevor Ocean reciprocated the gaze. “It’s too meta. People don’t like it when you go too meta.”
“Okay. How about something like… ’Division, a rather fitting name for two individuals who seem to need as much division away from each other as possible’?”
“Maybe,” she said, after thinking for a few moments. “There’s something there, but it needs refining. I’ll re-write it and then tell you exactly what to say, okay?”
As Gerald nodded in a somewhat proud manner, she re-directed her attention on the two men at the opposite end of the table.
“You should be under no illusions,” the young woman continued, electing to ignore Dave and Krash and keep her focus on the tag team across the table from her. “The Elite… The Division… whatever it is that you want to call yourself. You are a subplot. And I’m not talking about a subplot in my story, or the story of the FWA. I’m talking in a grander sense than that. The tag team division, for such a long time, has been like a Saturday morning cartoon. You’ll watch it if you’re up in time, and it holds the attention for the short span of your day that imposes upon. Hell, every now and again, you’ll pull out a stomper of an episode that might even illicit something resembling an emotional reaction from your audience. But now?”
A sweet but conniving smile passes over the young woman’s face.
“Now, you have opened the gates to something more. Something much grander than yourselves. And you find that you are being washed away. Getting lost in the details. Do you really think that The Elite Tag Team Classic is your beginning?! Look around you. Does this look like a new dawn?!”
She allowed her words to sink in, and looked on as the champions eyed up their surroundings. Black clouds were beginning to roll in across the blue skies. The greens seemed duller. The blues were masked.
“This is the end, Trevor. And for you, too, Noah. Look back at what you have done. At how meagre your great accomplishments actually are. And then throw yourselves in.”
Stocke and Ocean stared at her for a moment, puzzlement and fear plain on their faces. After a while, they began to whisper at one another hurriedly, blocking the young woman out of their best laid plans. She was distracted by a noise from high above, and when she turned towards the source she noticed that Cromwell and Connelly had climbed atop a large, silver faucet on the lip of the empty lake. They were working its mechanisms, and soon enough water began to flow freely from the tap. It was slow at first, but was quickly gushing out and beginning its path down into the basin.
“Michelle!” the King barked at her, causing her to turn towards him. “The covers!”
She lifted one of the stainless steel covers and looked about the table, regarding the concerned faces of each of the champions. The plug had been put back in its hole, and it appeared it was time for the next plunge. Without a word, she placed the steel cover atop of Gerald. The water had climbed up around her ankles, icy cold to the touch, and from afar she could hear Connelly and Cromwell cackling, and a black mast blocked out the sun. An elderly thai man tapped away at the drums in front of her, water slowly filling up around them. …
…
…
In Thailand, in 2064, Michelle takes one more long draw from the pipe, and then sets it down beside her. She lays back in bed, the smooth jazz slowing to a halt, each note drawing onwards into the horizon, time meandering at an unnatural but soothing pace. She closes her eyes, and she smiles. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 9:42:41 GMT
Promo history - volume 41.
"Wrestling Promo" (w/ Gerald Grayson) (October 9th, 2020).
Michelle von Horrowitz and Gerald Grayson def. Krash and Mike Parr [Tag Team Match, The Elite Tag Team Classic: Redemption Bracket] (FWA: Fight Night). GERALD GRAYSON and MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
”WRESTLING PROMO.”
We open up on a simple scene. There is no vast landscape. There is no ambiguity. There is no elaborate dream sequence. No forests, no mountains, no lakes. No horizon. There is no elongated metaphor. No gimmick. Michelle von Horrowitz and Gerald Grayson stand in front of an FWA banner somewhere in the back of the Rogers Arena in Vancouver, Canada. The lighting is dim. The surroundings are humble. There are only the two of them and the lens of the camera, pointed in their direction in expectation. Gerald stands perfectly still and in full ring gear at the centre of the shot, his X Division Championship proudly positioned upon his left shoulder. Behind him, a baggy black hoodie covering her battle-dress, Michelle paces slightly, this way and that. There is no championship belt on her shoulder, which is noteworthy for self-evident reasons.
“Tag team wrestling is a staple of any wrestling promotion. In FWA, this is no different,” Gerald nods his head as he speaks, firmly in approval of his own words. One couldn’t be sure if Michelle was listening, but that didn’t seem to faze our male lead. “I truly admire the tag teams in FWA, and the ones that riddle its history. You get into this kind of business and expect to go at it alone. To go through the trials and tribulations of this business alone. But tag teams? Tag teams have it even harder... simply because of an attachment to another individual. It’s double the work, double the trials, double the tribulations. But if you find the right partner in the ring, just like the right partner in life… knowing that someone has your back? You have this feeling of fearlessness that a singles competitor could never hope to experience.”
Michelle, still pacing, cocks an eyebrow and shakes her head. Gerald is mid-pause, and he looks down at his shoulder… but not the one upon which his X Division Championship currently sits. Instead, it is his bare shoulder, as if he is contemplating what a second belt might do for his look.
“So yes, despite the badmouthing we’ve done to several... um, most... tag teams in FWA, I salute you all.” Grayson licks his lips and turns silent for a moment. He doesn’t bother looking at Michelle. He already knows what reaction he is eliciting. Sometimes, it’s fun to poke the bear. “To say that being in a tag team with Michelle has taught me things is an understatement. Sure, I might’ve acquired a better taste for drinking because of...” Gerald motions with an extended thumb towards Michelle. She responds with a rolling of the eyes. “But I’ve gained so much from being in a tag team in general. My ring awareness has increased... my attention to detail couldn’t be more precise... hell, I’m even faster. It also helps when your tag team partner is... competitive. One-upmanship abounds. Honestly, it might be a ridiculous thing to say, but I feel like a superhero!” Michelle rolls her eyes so far that the audience worries they may become stuck in the back of her head. “And that’s because of tag team wrestling...”
“If I may,” Michelle begins, finally giving her incessant pacing a rest and taking up a position on Gerald’s left. Grayson remains unmoved, his gold softly illuminated by the dim hallways lights. “I cannot disagree more whole-heartedly with the garbage that my partner has been spewing for the past minute and a half. Tag team wrestling is not the great art form - the greatest art form - that The Division have for years been proclaiming it to be. We proved that to them last week. My tulips, you don’t need to hear me say the same things again and again. I have already won this argument. To me, this tournament is not about proving that I am the best tag team wrestler…”
She almost spits out the words, her distaste quite plain on her countenance. Grayson shuffles his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other, turning slightly to face his partner as she continues with her poetic vitriol. He nervously scratches behind his ear, waiting for an opportunity to interrupt. It is quite clear that she has no intention of giving him one.
“... that is not something that I have ever had any interest in being. I stood in the middle of the ring three weeks before the tournament started and spoke about a match that pitted myself and the late Kevin Cromwell against Cyrus Truth and Nova Diamond. Laziness of the strange bed-fellows variety. But I told you all that 'victory over Truth and Diamond in a meaningless tag team match was better than defeat to Truth and Diamond in a meaningless tag team match'. The same is true now, and has been true of every team that we have torn apart over the past few weeks. Kayden Knox and Michael Garcia somehow proved themselves to be less than the sum of their measly parts. The Division showed us that their previous name was a straight up abuse of the truth, which does explain why they changed it. The aforementioned Cromwell and Diamond? We defeated them so decisively and conclusively that they haven’t bothered to even keep up with the travelling circus ever since. Is that everyone?”
She rather abruptly turns towards Gerald, as if his time to speak had come. She clearly felt his cue to be obvious. No memorandum had come Gerald’s way on the matter, and so he returned a few moments of silence.
Finally, Gerald offered an answer.
“That’s not everyone, Michelle.” Finally, Gerald offered an answer.
“That’s not everyone, Michelle.”
She smiles, and pats him on the shoulder in a friendly manner. Rather noticeably, the tips of her fingers come to rest upon the gold plating of his championship belt. She momentarily regards the name plate: GERALD GRAYSON. Those that were quick on the pause button would find a rather suggestive picture, but it did not take long for her to regain her composure and address the camera directly once again.
“I know that’s not everyone. My memory is long, tulip, and the defeat is still scorched onto it. I have spoken already, and at length, about my pride being our downfall on that evening. Our very first match in this tournament, and my own… personal issues… came in-between us and victory. Hell, between me and my partner, even. I’ve spoken to Gerald privately about that match, and we’ve come since to regard it as a cautionary tale. And now we find ourselves more united than we have been since this weird little carousel’s conception, and across the ring from the same pair that exploited our divisions. And my distractions…”
She leaves it there, but Gerald is immediate in taking up the conversational slack.
“I want to say that when challenges come our way, it’s a normal thing to struggle with them. But the idea of challenge is what I live for, and Michelle laughs in the face of struggle. So for her to basically cost us that time around… for her arrogance and lack of clarity to hand the match to Parr and Krash... it only makes the challenge that’s presented to us tonight more... memorable.” Michelle stares daggers at her tag team partner, but he stands his ground. “But let’s talk about last week. Last week was momentous... an important night in The Elite Tag Team Classic… when The Grayson and von Horrowitz Connection guaranteed a new champion walks out of this tournament with those belts. When we eliminated The Elite. Trevor, Noah, thanks for playing... but your fight is over.”
Gerald flashes his stupid, big smile and waves goodbye to the Elite. Michelle shakes her head in disapproval.
“Say, technically, wouldn’t that make us the champions?” He points towards himself and Michelle. “I could sit here and list off the tag teams that have beaten The Elite this year. The list is pretty bare. Us. Golden and Ramon. The Gang Stars at One Night Only. And Krash and Parr, way back at the start of the year…”
Krash twice…
Here, Gerald pauses, as if locked in a tussle of memories. Snapping out of his malaise, Gerald struggled to pick up his own thread. He’d listed Krash twice and from there found himself drifting through a tangential memory. But now that he was back in the present, he found he hadn’t the appetite for discussion of The White Wolf.
“But I don’t want to talk about that. Instead, I want to talk about The New Breed.” A sly smile creeps across the face of Grayson. Time to wind the key. “New Breed. Protege and Prototype.” Gerald looks to his right where he can see a silently-seething Michelle. He lets out a repressed laugh and wags his finger at the camera. “You guys done messed up.”
”I’m afraid I must address this,” she began, traversing the foreground of the shot, and occasionally circling all the way around her partner. ”Because I do want to talk about the debacle that concluded last week’s riveting edition of Fight Night. We went from the exasperatingly predictable to the exasperatingly nonsensical. From De Sica to Dali in a matter of moments. Gerald and I rather inevitably dumped our now-former champions out of their own tournament, but had only moments to celebrate. And that is in no small part down to The New Breed, who showed themselves to be respectless knaves. From behind, they stormed the ring and justified the unjustifiable. This disgusting and depraved display of cowardice has been the subject of much debate, and now our central mystery has been solved. The New Breed in the pantry with a lead pipe, with the Pink Witch looming over them and pulling the strings.”
She stops and shakes her head, a smile forcing a way onto her lips. She stares down the lens intently, addressing one person out of the millions and millions watching at home.
”Bell Connelly, I am sick and tired of telling you to come to Fight Night. The boys in the back are sick and tired of hearing me telling you to come to Fight Night. I imagine you yourself are sick and tired of being told to come to Fight Night. And so, this silly charade must finally come to a close, and what better setting for this climax than on FWA’s fifteenth Anniversary Show. My promise to you has only intensified since your goons decided to come forward with their truth. Bell, if you do not share a ring with me this week on Fight Night, and allow me to tell you what I’ve been dying to tell you for the last ten months, then you will no longer be numb to your miserable hovel of an existence. I will shake you from this slumber. I will pry your eyes open, and I will reveal the truth of your reality. I assume, deep down, you already know. And I’m certain that you are certain that, one day, you must confront these truths. But that day will come sooner than you wish if you continue to defy me. If I have to burn you out of your fucking hole, then I will. That you have taken my title away from me…”
Here, she points at the FWA X Division Championship, without even bothering to regard the man whose shoulder it sits upon. It is an interesting visual, and Grayson’s discomfort does not go unnoticed.
“That you have taken my title away from me is only the very fucking start of this bullshit. It’s the jumping off point, if you will. Bell, you have shown your hand too early, and the world now sees you for the morally-devoid craven that you are. That I have always known you to be. The fucking New Breed?! Come on, Bell - - have some fucking self-respect! But the message has been received, and cannot possibly be considered an end to hostilities. This is not the end. This is not closure. Before I deal wi - -”
A slip-up, and a pause in recognition of this slip-up.
“Before we deal with Mike Parr and Krash, you will answer for your crimes. Against me, and against this ring that you once claimed to love.”
With clear signs of heavy breathing, she finally yields the floor. When Grayson doesn't immediately pick up the slack, she looks over to him, and finds him a frustrated figure.
“What?”
She questions her tag team partner, who has his hand on his forehead.
“Michelle, I know you haven’t forgotten how our last match against Krash and Parr went... you were talking about it earlier. A cautionary tale, you said. Have you forgotten already?” He moves from the centre of the shot, almost disappearing from it in order to retrieve a bottle of water. As he takes a few gulps, Michelle continues to regard him carefully, wondering where he's headed. “It’s like you haven’t learned anything from all the tag team matches we’ve been in. Let’s not forget the shenanigans you pulled before that match even started. I knew I was going to have a difficult time with you but you took it to the next level with your disappearing act. But it wouldn’t be The Michelle von Horrowitz experience if you didn’t cause some drama, right? I’m not used to a scavenger hunt before I get chance to talk tactics. How insane is that? You took me into your world and honestly, I was frightened out of my mind. To know that someone could hold that much anger and that much hate, it was scary. I guess I have myself to blame for giving you even a slight benefit of the doubt.”
Michelle can be heard, just, mumbling about how she doesn’t love trouble, trouble loves me, but Gerald either doesn't hear or chooses not to. He takes a deep breath before staring directly into Michelle’s eyes. Her skin is as pale and soft as snow, but her eyes are as fierce as fire. They give him pause, but continue he must and continue he does.
“We know how good Krash and Parr are. It’s gonna take a lot to beat them. That 'team' they faced the first time around, it doesn’t exist anymore. It was a laughable effort on our part. But we are better now… in all facets of the word. We’re an actual team. I don’t want to find you reverting back to your old self.” The comment brings a suggestion of a snarl from MvH. “This Bell character… this whole saga... wasn’t the whole point, you know, getting her to reply? Well, there you have it. You got what you wanted.” Grayson shakes his head and lets out another sigh. ”I won’t ask you to focus on Krash and Parr alone. That would be selfish of me. If I were you, I wouldn’t even be here right now. But we are here, and you need to balance your focus.”
She thinks about his words carefully, and decides against a direct response.
”It is an unavoidable fact that we have returned to a similar impasse, a few months down the road. The same four people, the same ring, the same fans. But it’s not the same, is it? Since we lost that match... since I lost my first match in FWA… we’ve been condemned to this purgatorial domain euphemistically entitled the Redemption Bracket. And then, thanks to The Artistic Truth or Golden Showers or whoever it was, you decide to keep us company here. By definition… by its very nature… there is more on the line in this match than there was back in June. There is now a sense of finality to proceedings. You know…”
She has long stopped pacing, and has taken up a position directly next to Gerald. He listens carefully, as interested as the audience as to her direction. She makes him wait, and is lost in a thought. Michelle finds herself staring down at the floor, at her shoes, and at the impatient and involuntarily tapping of her foot against the concrete. She regains control, considers her surroundings, and then picks up her thread.
”When I first entered into this tournament, I almost thought of it as an intellectual and athletic exercise. A challenge. A riddle to be solved. I hope, my tulips, that you’ll forgive me a moment of candour. Before the draw and after the draw, I considered my tag team partner to be nothing more than an appendage... a footnote. Grayson or Cromwell or either of the Blacks... I didn’t think it really mattered. And in many ways - -” she shoots her comrade a sidewards glance. “No offence, but in many ways I stand by that. Regardless of who stands at my side, I would still be going into this match with a sense of absolute clarity. An unmatched self-belief that tells me that this is not the night of Mike Parr and Krash. And that might just be the problem. Because the same is true of our little dalliance back in June. Regardless of which puppet they’d placed in my corner, I would not have tagged them in... and I would have lost. But I do not feel quite so certain that just anybody would’ve been able to guide this team from where we were then to where we are now.”
One final look at her partner, but with more warmth. Gerald regards her carefully, almost forgetting the camera that stares unblinkingly at them.
”The encounters between our two teams, one in June and one in October, will not be viewed as book-ends to our adventure in this tournament. A neat little symmetry between our first and last matches is somewhat alluring. But neatness is to be avoided, almost as a rule. Michelle von Horrowitz does not make the same mistake twice. My date with Bell Connelly is what it is, if you'll excuse the tautology, and will occupy a different plane to our business within the ring. This match deserves respect. Its winners will still have mountains to climb: four matches still sit between us and those championships. Even so, do not think that I… that we... do not feel the gravity of this situation. And Parr... Krash... whilst our bonds have been strengthening... tightening... can the same be said of yours? Whilst Michelle von Horrowitz and Gerald Grayson have been re-inserting themselves into the forefront of this tournament, you only need to look further down the card to see Mike Parr and Krash readying for their inevitable implosion. The time has come, gentlemen. Throw yourselves in. You don't stand a chance.” |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 9:45:05 GMT
Promo history - volume 42.
"The Picture of Eli Black" (w/ Gerald Grayson) (10/22/2020).
Michelle von Horrowitz and Gerald Grayson def. Cyrus Truth and Eli Black [Tag Team Match, The Elite Tag Team Classic: Redemption Bracket] (FWA: Fight Night). GERALD GRAYSON and MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
”THE PICTURE OF ELI BLACK.” Hallowe’en. The one time of year where kids (and more infantilized adults) dress up in their favorite costumes to commemorate and indulge in countless amounts of candy, chocolate, alcohol, or whatever their particular poison might happen to be. And, in our corner of the world… ghosts, ghouls, vampires, zombies, monsters, ogres, and, um, Disney characters assembled in a large, white tent bearing the ‘FWA’ logo. Two individuals had taken on the tall task of hosting the cumbersomely-named FWA Annual Hallowe’en Spectacular for the Kids’. To get themselves ready, these two individuals dressed themselves in their best scout leader costumes. You had your khaki shirt, shorts, neckerchief, and some white, knee-high socks. The male of this pairing had opted for a sash that housed some badges that he had ‘earned’ down the years. One button in particular was larger in comparison to the others and read “the Grayson and von Horrowitz Connection” in green text on blue background. He spiced up his scout leader costume by pairing it with a pair of blue Air Jordan 1s. His counterpart, on the other hand, refused to ’wear a sash that would house any buttons that I didn’t actually earn’, but did wear a yellow neckerchief and a wide-brimmed scout-leader hat.Of course, if you’d had time to ask him, a certain FWA champion would’ve told you that he often helped out in his local boy-scout brigade back in Raleigh, and was actually a big supporter of the national outfit. Hence the attire.
“I can’t believe I let you convince me to do this,” she said, stomping her plain black Vans every step they took towards the large group of assembled children.“Honestly, I’m surprised as well. But hey, we beat Mike Parr and Krash last week. I think we deserve some down time! We’re going to spread a lot of joy tonight! I think everyone could use some joy, don’t you?” Michelle could only shrug and mutter sure if you want to be all sanctimonious about literally EVERYTHING. She reached into the top pocket of her khaki shirt, produced a hip flask, and took a swig. Gerald rolled his eyes. “We’re about to be in front of perhaps five hundred kids who are here to have some fun. It’s Hallowe’en! Don’t be such a ghoul! Put your best smile on!”Gerald looked on as Michelle tried to follow his instruction and put her best smile on. But he could only look on in disgust. When she attempted to do so, her face contorted in ways he never considered quite possible.
“Ahh! Alright, maybe don’t do that. Just don’t look all grumpy, alright?”After the event’s host had finished hyping them up, it was their cue to show up on stage. Gerald had his hands on his hips like a superhero for an as-yet and ultimately unexplained reason, while Michelle made an effort to wave to the sea of children. The infants were all cheers and smiles, eager to get the festivities going.
“Hey kids!” Gerald exclaimed. “I am Camp-Leader Gerald Grayson and this is my partner for tonight - Michelle von Horrowitz!”The kids cheer and clap for the pair on stage.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed all of the day’s festivities, but now it’s time… for the main event! Ten extra-'specially-lucky FWA fans amongst you will be having s’mores by the campfire followed by some scary stories, as told by Camp-Leader Michelle...”There’s an immediate buzz of excitement amongst the audience, which subsides a little when many of the children begin to realise that it’s von Horrowitz, and not Grayson, who will be occupying their time. Just then, a crew member carted a large, brass bingo ball machine onto the stage to a sense of general amazement beneath the big-top. Gerald was all smiles and seemingly genuine in his excitement, while von Horrowitz stood there and feigned a cheer with a lift of her arm. She reached for her hip flask, discreetly walking around the machine to take an unobserved pull. Gerald began to give the tombola a whirl before collecting a ball with a four-digit number. Ball after ball, each kid seemed happier than the last one… until it came to the final winner.
“#6969 - come on down! You are the final member that will be joining us for s’mores and ghost stories!” Here, a disheveled young girl of about thirteen years old remains unmoved, staring at her ball with a passive non-reaction. The child’s mother signalled towards the stage, encouraging her to join the rest of the kids with a sense of general dismay. Finally, with a heavy sigh, the girl reluctantly gave in. Grayson handed back hosting duties and followed the lucky winners towards the side of the stage.They were led to the back of a mini-bus, and then to a camp-fire. When the group were sitting around it, Camp-Leader Gerald busied himself in handing out marshmallows and s’mores, even going so far as to offer one to each of the camera crew. Michelle simply stared at each of the assembled children in turn, deliberately placing them in discomfort until they’d turn away towards Gerald’s friendlier presence. All except the last girl, who stared back at Michelle with a blank expression, daring her to blink first. Eventually, sensing the unease that was descending upon their huddle, Gerald gave Michelle a nudge on the shoulder, snapping her back to attention.
”You promised us a story!” Gerald said, sitting himself down next to Michelle and crossing one leg over the other.”Yes,” Michelle answered, looking into the fire. ”A story.”_-*-_-*-_ The floorboards creaked underfoot. Black, in an uncharacteristic burst of creativity, had likened it to the groans of the matinee audience at the Globe or the Palace, as if the room itself was deeply unimpressed by the series of paintings that adorned it.
There were, or at least had been, two of them: Black himself, who you've met, and also Sir Kevin. Kevin, who had recently and briefly excused himself from the gallery, was a direct descendent (through the male line no less) of the great parliamentarian Oliver, and ran in the circles that may, by the vulgar, be termed high society. He accomplished the occupation of this social strata through his lineage alone, lacking the wit and charm to achieve it naturally. Black was not so lucky as to acquire such friends through birthright. The company he kept had to be worked for. As a struggling artist who had not yet sold a painting, let alone been exhibited, this sort of bourgeois hobnobbing had become a routine sales tactic. Any day now, Black thought to himself. The sales will come.
He continued to meander about the exhibition hall and regard the paintings on display there. It was a collection of works from across the Atlantic, and Sir Kevin had paid both their entrance in order for Black to cast his expert eye over pieces that he was considering purchasing. Black compared himself unfavourably to each passing artist: the loud expressionist whose works screamed at you like the roar of music… the surrealist who painted real life through otherworldly metallic shades… the hopeful realist and his Spring-set landscapes. Black considered a piece full of blossom and hope for the coming year, and sighed to himself. He allowed his mind to drift to the two self-portraits that - almost by rote - he had created under the previous night's candlelight. They seemed in contrast to the thoughtful pastel strokes of the work he now observed: his art suddenly seemed drab, solemn, and thoroughly pedestrian.
"You are not them," a voice said. Black, who had thought himself to be alone, turned to find the source. It wasn't Sir Kevin, who was still otherwise indisposed. Instead, a tall and proud man stood before him, dressed all in black and with the hood of his cloak pulled down across his eyes. There was no smile upon his face, but he looked upon Black in a kindly manner. "And you ask yourself why you are not them..."Black thought for a moment, his fingers running over the gold pocket-watch in his front pocket.
"Their experience is not mine," Black answered. He passed his index finger over the light inscription upon the back of the timepiece."Wise words," the stranger said, unmoving. "But hollow."The silence was tense. The stranger cast no shadow, yet seemed composed of shadow himself.
"I know what you want," the Ghost stated. "And I can give it to you."Though the Artist was still young, he had already grown weary of such lofty promises, especially when delivered in a stranger's sickly-sweet words. By way of an answer, Black turned away, and stared again upon the canvas in front of him.
"I don't need help. I will find it myself," he said, attempting pride but faltering in the delivery."Who are you talking to?" Sir Kevin's voice - a softer and more familiar voice - floated across the room. Heavy, uncouth footsteps upon the floorboards heralded his entry. Black found the two of them alone, unmolested by the presence of the stranger."Nobody."It was following this strange meeting that strange events began to plague Black's hitherto-normal life. On the way back to his apartment, he had run into the young lady Yuna, who he had not seen in a number of weeks. She was being called back to the islands by the Emperor, her diplomatic mission finally over, and had decided to finally make good on her promise to buy one of Black's paintings. She asked for a self-portrait, as if she had known that Black had busied himself in the creation of two the very night prior. When he had told her this, Yuna made it clear that she wished to purchase both of the works, but the Artist found himself unwilling to part company with both of them so quickly. As he again fingered the gold watch in his pocket, he politely declined, but fixed a price for one of the pair.
That night, after a man from the Japanese embassy had arrived to collect the canvass, Black found himself looking upon the other. He'd given himself fine, straight features, the Strength of Youth, and clothes much more exquisite than any he currently owned. He looked down at the small pile of dirty coins that the errand boy had given him, and found that he was smiling at nobody in particular.
"Feels good, doesn't it?" A low, solemn, and now known voice punctured the silence of the Artist's chambers. Black didn't need to turn around to know that the Ghost loomed behind him. "Your first sale, I assume?"Black again found himself looking down at the coins. Simultaneously, his pocketed fingers ran over the inscription on the back of his watch. Finally, he turned to face the hooded figure.
“This was you?” he asked, a gloved hand pointing down at his ill-gotten loot. The stranger did not answer, though Black felt he already knew.“This will not be your last taste of success. I know that this is what you crave. I told you at the gallery: I can give you what you want. I will take you far along the road that you have only just begun to walk. But there is a price.”Black turned away from the Ghost, and looked again upon his own work. For the first time, he noticed that a dark figure loomed in a corner, veiled in shadow. He had no recollection of painting it, but there it was, plain as day. He leant in close, eyes tracing over the delicate brush strokes - his brush stokes, no doubt - that had given birth to this looming presence.
“I will give you the things you seek: renown, respect, reverence. But for each victory, each step forward... a toll will be taken on this portrait. You will live on, and your legend will grow, but the consequence… the reality... will devour this work. Confined to the edges of a canvass, yes… but this painting will serve as a reminder of the things you’ve done, and this bargain that you now make.”Black’s eyes shifted uncomfortably from the painting to the pile of coins once more. Without a word, he nodded his subservient acquiesce. And then the Ghost disappeared.
That very night, he began work on a new piece that he would eventually name Harnessing Storms. In the foreground, a tall tower stands amidst a raging storm. The bricks look old, as if a meagre assault might bring it to its knees. The storms, though, only dance around the structure, as if controlled by some source from within. In the skies, bats fly against the wind, bringing with them shadow so dark that all else seems to recoil from the blackness. When he stepped away from the piece and regarded it in its totality, he thought himself content. Rough around the edges, perhaps, and with more hunger than skill… but at least it showed ambition. Two days later, it was on exhibit in a West London gallery near the theatre districtIt was in the nearby playhouses that he first observed the Golden Girl that would become the object of most of his desire for the months that followed. She had long, strawberry-blond hair that flowed in curls to her shoulders, and sang with the beauty of a nightingale upon the Spring breeze. He would sit and watch eagerly, almost greedily, as she transported him to Ancient Rome or sixteenth century Venice or feudal Japan. The operas enchanted him most, and he’d fall in love again each night when she emerged onto the stage as a different character in a different costume. His Golden Girl danced upon the stage, wordlessly promising him that - one day soon - she would be his.
A month after he had sold his second painting, Black found himself in a small South London coffee house, having afternoon tea with Sir Kevin and talking about his recent change in fortunes.
"You sold another? What's that now: four? Five?" Kevin asked, watching on as the serving girl stirred a cube of sugar into his tea. He watched on with a lecherous gaze as she returned her trolly to the side of the room."Six," Black answered, dully."Go on then," Kevin began. "What's this one about? More storms?""It's called Duality," he started. He was gesticulating with his hands, but in truth he was beginning to sound bored. "It's mostly variations on a theme of light. Different colours, in contrast, but used in a complementary fashion. One bringing out a kinder, more soothing tone in the other. But amongst it all there is discord, and a black shadow permeates the piece. Hungry and expectant. The forces that pull apart are stronger than those that tie together.""Well, I think there you have it," Kevin said, by way of an answer. Black began to stare out of the window. "Conclusive proof that people in London will buy literally anything. You might even sell that self-portrait soon enough."The memory of that particular canvass quickly ruined the rather pleasant scene that Black found outside the window. He had looked at it each and every night since the stranger's second and most recent visit, and each time he felt he found subtle differences. Sometimes it would be in the countenance of the subject: ostensibly himself but becoming increasingly more otherly. Or often it was the looming shadow that had changed: sometimes larger, sometimes blacker. Eventually, he would find himself cold and numbed by the canvass, and thus bury it beneath more recent work.
He realised that he had been silent for quite some time, and so tried to meet Kevin's gaze. He found his counterpart staring across the room at the serving girl.
"Maybe she has a friend," Kevin said. "We could make an afternoon of it. Unless you're still saving yourself for your actress?"Black just stared at him. He didn't feel the man had any right to talk about his Golden Girl. As had become a nervous habit, the Artist ran his fingers over the smooth surface of his pocket-watch, tucked safely away in his front pocket.
"I've told you already," Kevin continued, on thin ice. "You're not her type. She has more… European sensibilities… I hear she’s always running with that wild Dutch girl. You know the one."Kevin smirked a sly smile. Black said nothing.
Over the coming weeks, Black continued to frequent his plays and his operas, mostly watching whatever production his Golden Girl was a part of. But along with new wealth comes new habits and new vices, and more regularly Black found himself with men of less repute than his usual company. He took to visiting bordello halls and burlesque shows with the city's proletariat. He found these places garish and vulgar, but at least more direct and honest than the wine lounges and country clubs that his old friends still haunted. Eventually, greater success allowed him to move to a larger house in a more humble location. He thought himself free of the airs of his past life, but he was never free of his self-portrait. Each night, he found himself less sure of his authorship. In his new house, he hid the painting away in his attic, and tried his best not to think of it.
The following evening, Black was walking down one of Camden’s notorious back-streets, searching out an establishment worth wasting his hours and his pounds in with two of his new associates. Trevor said little, and stomped around the streets with an arched back and an expression on his face suggestive of thorough dissatisfaction. Noah, on the other hand, walked with excellent posture, and attempted to dress like the gentlemen of the day, complete with top hat and tails. Black was never sure if this was in homage or in pastiche. It was Noah’s choice that night, and he took the trio into a dark and dank building, perhaps ten metres back from the road and shrouded in oak trees, their branches gnarled and weakened by rot. He tapped an irregular knock on the door, and a few moments later a wild, frantic eye appeared through an opening above the keyhole. It looked carefully at each of them, and then finally the door opened. An old man with a crooked back and pockmarked skin took their coats. Trevor continued to scowl at the world. Noah licked his lips greedily. Black did his best to steel himself.
“Fill your boots, boys,” Noah said as he entered the main hall of the bordello. On the stage, a band played peculiar, fast-paced music that relied heavily on percussion and strings. It was like nothing Black had ever heard before. Upon the floor, a series of tables were full of men: some drinking, some smoking, some telling stories and roaring with laughter, and some gambling with dice or cards. It was just then that Black first saw the women, clad in scant fashion and a willing friend to anyone with deep pockets. Suppressing his anxiety, he felt around for his smooth gold pocket-watch, giving his fingers something to cling to. With the nail of his thumb he scratched against the inscription on its surface. A woman walked past the three of them as she made her way to the bar, snapping him out of his malaise in the process. She showed more than just shoulder, and Black hastily looked away, at the floor and at nothing in-particular. There were many more of them on the floor, and occasionally one would lead a stumbling gentlemen through a small door into a back-room. Noah found them a table, and the trio sat down.“Sold any paintings recently?” Trevor asked. Black did his best to focus on his companions, but found that both of them had eyes only for the serving girls. The Artist sighed. He knew what Trevor really meant to ask: do you have any money? Their company was easy, and sometimes even comfortable. He’d slid into it almost without realising, noting the simple life that the pair enjoyed and finding it desirable. Pairing up in such a manner gave easy protection and robbed a man of his ambition. It was easy to tread water in the shallows.“I’ve sold lots of paintings recently,” Black answered, reaching into his pocket and producing a crisp bundle of notes. He signalled over to one of the serving girls, without meeting her gaze. She promptly brought over a bottle of whiskey and three glasses.Hours later, a heavy curtain separated Black from the rest of the patrons. He had a long, wooden pipe in his hand, a smog laying heavily over his head. He closed his eyes and thought of the tapestries and paintings that now adorned every available square centimetre of his home. Shipped in from India and America and the Orient: silks and cottons and furs in striking golds and regal silvers and deepest reds. He smiled to himself, and felt a Peculiar Youth rush through his body. When Black opened his eyes the girl was in front of him, taking the pipe from his tired hands. Not his Golden Girl from the playhouses. He had not visited a theatre in several weeks, and now found it difficult to recall her soft, pale features. He wasn’t shamed by that realization. He was emboldened by it. He looked at the girl’s eyes, into the girl’s eyes, and she felt within him a fire and a warning. She recoiled slightly as the Artist stood, and when he returned her gaze she was certain that, for this night only, and for better or for worse, he had chosen her.
The pipe and the bottle were his best and only friends in the coming weeks, and with low-born London scum he would stalk the alley-ways and back-streets that had, only two years prior, been the seldom-seen homes of the pitiful other half. Now, he was their leader, having gone into the secret spots of the city’s aristocracy and intelligentsia and found them wanting. He returned to the peasantry each night as a conquering hero, and he would take a new bride from amongst them to lay with. Each morning, he would paint visions sent to him by the divine, and play Robin Hood in the market-halls, allowing the enemy a taste of his genius if only they had the coin.
Black began to work in his study on his next piece (a bold and abstract venture into expressionism depicting golden droplets being taken back in to dark, ominous clouds that he coined Dried Up Gold), and his mind began to turn - as it often did when he had a paintbrush in his hand - to the canvass that was still hidden in his attic. Naturally, this would progress into reflections upon the Ghost, and the promises that had been made. Promises that had been quickly and absolutely fulfilled. Lately, Black had been contemplating his turn in fortunes. He questioned whether he still needed the stranger and his sweet words at all, and whether he was ready to finally walk beyond the shadows.It was on one of these nights, as Black painstakingly applied the final strokes to the clouds of his latest opus, that the Ghost finally returned. When Black felt the presence, he placed his brush down on his work space and stood up from his chair. He saw the hooded figure, stone-faced and disguised by shadow, through the large mirror upon his wall. He didn't need to turn. He seemed frozen still by a force that he didn't entirely understand. Unnaturally and uncomfortably, he reached into his pockets, for the pocket-watch that would occupy his idle digits.
"Is there a problem?" The Ghost asked, his eyes unblinking and his gaze penetrative. "Have I not given you all that you asked for? Fame. Fortune. High regard. Acceptance.""You speak as if you know my mind," the Artist returned. It was a statement, not a question, and something that he had felt since their first meeting."Even if I didn't possess the gifts that I possess, your mind would be plain to me," the stranger answered. "I have given you the choices that you desired. And what did you choose? Base pleasures. Low ambition. You have taken my gifts and with them you have produced nothing. Tell me, Black: which of your successes are truly your own? And worst of all, you have ignored the cost.”The next thing that the Artist knew, he was standing in his attic, the ghostly figure still looming behind him. He approached the old, three-legged desk that stood in one corner, a pile of ancient, unread books stacked up beneath the unbalanced corner. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, gold pocket-watch. It was untouched by time, but Black had not the energy to consider that irony. He ran his eyes over the inscription: it’s later than you think. Black attempted to flick the watch open, but it fell through his nervous fingers and onto the floor. Candles were already lit atop the table, and under their light he spread the canvass out in front of him, remembering why they were here. He surveyed the background first, noting that the details were still vivid and exactly as he’d originally painted them. The subject of the piece, though, was now barely a man at all. His face had become pockmarked with age, and smothered by shadows from unnamed sources. His gaunt features made his eyeballs bulbous and terrifying, and his teeth and hands were yellowed. The fine clothes had become tattered rags, and his hair had withered and fallen from his wrinkled head. He was in decay. ”He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.”
- Samuel Johnson. Although the image of himself - his true self, given the life that he had led and the choices that he had made - sickened him, it was the growing shadow that terrified him most. What had once been restricted to a corner of the image now loomed ominously, directly behind the weathered and haggard man that sat in the foreground. Worse yet, the shadow had his hand upon the subject’s shoulder, and when Black regarded it he felt an icy touch upon his self. It quickly spread to his arm and his neck, and in horror the Artist turned around to face the Ghost. He still stood on the opposite side of the room.
“You musn’t ignore the cost.”And now, at last, Black felt he knew the Ghost’s mind. For his promises seemed sweet, and only in this moment did the Artist see the obedience that was required in return. For the Shadow, though powerful, was also abstracted and removed. Aloof: perhaps purposefully at first, but now by a design that was beyond him. Black looked at the Ghost, and saw that he wished to walk amongst the living, and that the Artist was only the conduit he had chosen to use. With what he felt was his last available burst of power, Black turned and flailed his arms at a nearby candle, knocking the flame onto the canvas. It took quickly, and soon enough the fire was licking down the neat stack of books that filled in for the missing table-leg. Unthinking, the Artist reached for a nearby torch and thrust it into the flames. He turned, and with a feral anger in his eyes he lunged at the Ghost - -_-*-_-*-_ ”Um,” Camp-leader Gerald began, looking anxiously at each of the children in front of him. Nine were in various states of alarm, whilst the tenth was thoroughly disinterested. ”I think that’s enough story-time for one evening. No more s’mores, I’m afraid. Too much sugar right before bedtime! I think it’s time you all went back to the main tent”After doing his best to usher the children away with a smile on his face, Gerald finally rounded on his tag team partner. Although he was doing his best to affect a serious and reprimanding tone, he was - at the end of the day - dressed as a cub-scout leader.
”Michelle, I thought we agreed a short...”“It was only just over three thousand words.”“... age-appropriate …”“I skipped over all the overtly sexual stuff.”“... scary …”“It was about Eli’s career.”“... current …”“Oh, so... because Wilde isn’t on Twitter, he isn’t relevant?”“... ghost story... about our opponents!!”Michelle folded her arms in a show of defiance.
“Oh, please, Gerald! The whole thing was about Eli and Cyrus. Do I have to explain it to you?”“We don’t have another three thousand words to waste!” He returned, turning away from her and re-approaching the campfire.“What would you rather I’d said?” Michelle said, her tone more conciliatory. “Speak your mind, and speak plainly. We’ve come this far with you doing precisely that…”For a moment, Gerald was deep in thought, staring into the fire and tapping his foot against the floor. At length, he began: slowly, quiety, and with a self-assured belief in the strength of his own words.
“I signed us up to host this FWA event because I thought it would be beneficial for us to take some down time after coming off one of our biggest wins in the tag team tournament. We beat Mike Parr and Krash, Michelle! Not only that, but we’ve been in so many matches in the tournament compared to everyone else. Not gonna lie, it’s getting exhausting. But I guess I can’t fault you for thinking ahead of the game. That’s one of the reasons we’ve gotten this far in the tournament - because we’re always one step ahead of our opponents. If there’s one thing this whole saga has taught me, it’s to expect the unexpected from you. I give you simple instructions about telling the kids a scary story and this is what you come up with...”A sigh comes from Gerald expressing his disappointment, but he isn’t exactly surprised. With a shake of the head, he turns away from the fire to meet his partner’s gaze.
“But you know what, this is kind of how our partnership works. We anticipate what the other thinks ahead of time. What the other needs ahead of time. I mean, if we, ourselves, don’t know what’s going to happen, then our opponents sure as hell won’t know what’s coming at them, right?”Gerald lets that statement sink in for a while as the pair grow silent. Michelle cocks an eyebrow, intrigued but unsure as to where he’s going.
“Cyrus and Eli are one of the three remaining teams in the tournament and that should tell us that they’re a tough as nails team. Your story about Eli rings true... but let’s not underestimate him. He has gone through a lot in life and I can only see these things as motivation for him. Before this tag team tournament started, Eli was well on my tail, gunning for my X-Division title. When Cyrus came into the picture, he not only heightened the danger that Eli presents to myself but also to us as a team. We know about the accomplishments that Cyrus has in his career… both in the CWA and FWA. But this seems different. Having an ally as dangerous as Eli by his side, this is a whole new side of Cyrus.”Michelle offered no response and kicked at the dirt.
“You have the motivations of Eli and the perfect storm in Cyrus - you combine those two together and they are a big threat to our overall goal, and that’s winning this tournament.”Michelle began to nod her head. Gerald placed a hand on her shoulder.
“So, here’s my point: let’s not get cute with it. We know what we can do. We know what we are capable of. I think we both have belief in ourselves that this tournament is ours to win. So let’s freaking win this thing, alright?”Gerald gave Michelle a good smack on the shoulder. She responded by offering a fist bump and Gerald immediately offers one back.
“Alright, well. Let’s get going. It’s getting late and I guarantee you, it’s past the bed time for some of these kids. C’mon.”He gestured Michelle over to the direction of the bus.
“You go ahead,” she said, urging him onwards with a nod of her head. “I’ll catch up.”When her tag team partner had disappeared from sight, she walked past the campsite to the edge of the forest. She rustled a few branches until the young girl was roused from her hiding spot. She sheepishly emerged from behind a tree, a half-smoked cigarette in her hand. Michelle clicked her fingers and pointed at it, prompting the girl to give it up. The wrestler took a long drag, and regarded the girl reproachfully.
“You’re lucky I’m not taking the whole packet.”The young girl folded her arms, staring at first at the cigarette, and then at the woman who stood before her, smoking her cigarette. The neckerchief and hat were particularly daring.“You know you look ridiculous, right?” The young girl asked. “I don’t need to tell you that.”Michelle nodded her head. No argument there.”I’ve come all this way, and all I get is a lousy story?” The girl asked. She was more disappointed than ungrateful. Michelle reached around in her pockets, her hands finally finding her hip flask. She unscrewed the cap and finished the contents, before handing it over to the young girl. She regarded it carefully for a moment.”Neat,” she offered, before wandering over towards the mini-bus. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 9:47:46 GMT
Promo history - volume 43.
"Nine Lives" (November 2nd, 2022).
Michelle von Horrowitz def. Michael Garcia (FWA: Fight Night). [VOLUME FORTY THREE]
MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
”NINE LIVES.” _-*-_-*-_
“You know, you could’ve just flown,” Gerald was saying, doing his best to keep his eyes on the road despite the thick curtain of night and the oppressive torrential downfall that had suddenly waylaid them. The rental’s windscreen wipers were working overtime, giving him a second or two of clear vision before the next bombardment hit and left them back where they started. “I was back in Raleigh this week. It would’ve been easier for me to fly to Winnipeg directly than coming back to Calgary to pick you up.”
They had been traveling for a little over ten hours, and were just now passing Late Manitoba to the north, finally striking a path down the home straight towards Winnipeg. Gerald had reluctantly agreed to the arrangement, but not without fostering a healthy amount of resentment. Michelle had her window down a couple of centimetres to allow columns of smoke to escape her lungs and into the night air. She stared, as best she could, at the stars, partially obscured though they were by the rain.
“I don’t fly,” she said, flicking the end out of the window and once more playing with the tuning dial on the car stereo. They hadn’t been able to pick anything up for several hours, and she rolled her eyes at the incessant sound of static that came through the speakers. “There are no buses, and I don’t drive either. I am grateful, Gerald. I’ve told you that. But there’s only so many times you can guilt me before I lose patience.”
“Is that a threat?” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“You’d better believe it is,” she answered, allowing a playful smirk to find its way onto her face. Gerald shook his head, but saw the humour. Eventually, he reached over her hand and turned the radio off. The static was beginning to grate on him. “What were you doing in Raleigh?”
“The usual stuff, you know,” he replied, simultaneously using the controls beside the steering wheel to seal Michelle’s window. “Visiting family.”
A few years ago, such a flippant comment would’ve made her wince. But the young man wasn’t to know the specifics of her family’s long line of mishaps and tragedies. She had long since steeled herself against the thoughtlessness of the normal. Her counterpart continued, her thoughts concealed from him.
“I thought I’d take the opportunity to see them now, before the madness of Mile High really kicks in. We’re going to be busy. Some of us more than others...”
Michelle allowed herself a sidewards glance towards her tag team partner. She wondered if he was getting too comfortable around her, and whether leaving that unchecked would come back to haunt her. She collected the bottle of Jameson from the foot-well, taking a long pull before offering it to the driver. Gerald allowed himself a flabbergasted scoff, and then shook his head decisively.
"You know I'm in the Mile High Massacre too, right?" she asked. He turned to her, a frantic look plastered on his face. When he quickly realised she was joking, he stared back at the road and allowed himself a grunt. “Suit yourself,” she continued, taking another drink before screwing the top back onto the bottle. “Look, I know that this Bell situation is far from ideal. I could argue that I didn’t choose this: that this is the result of her and the New Breed interjecting themselves in my business. But you said it yourself last week: this is exactly what I wanted. Bell may have taken this thing nuclear, but I brought this on myself. There’s no backing out now. Not this late.”
Gerald’s hands seemed to tighten around the wheel, a clear indication of his simmering frustration.
“And if she weakens you up to the point where you can’t compete properly against Golden and Ramon?” he asked.
“Well,” she began, slowly mulling over her response. “I guess you’ll just have to carry me through it.”
Gerald simply shook his head. He didn’t feel that this was the time for jokes, and was never really sure when she was joking.
“Do you know which match is first?” he enquired. She shrugged in reply. He momentarily closed his eyes and sighed, further illustrating his rapid loss of patience. “I don’t know. I think you should try and get out of the match.”
“Not going to happen,” she answered, shaking her head to punctuate the response. “The Bell match is happening, and the finals are happening. That is just a fact that you’re going to have to accept. You don’t have to worry about me: I wouldn’t be doing this unless I knew that I could. Just make sure that you’re ready.”
“Oh, I’ll be ready,” Gerald said, something resembling panic evident in his tone. “In fact: I’m ready now! I only wish the final was this week. Instead, I have to run the risk of revealing too much against Golden, and you have to go one-on-one with that brute. You see what he did to Gabrielle?”
”I saw,” Michelle answered. “I am not Gabrielle.”
Grayson thought about this for a moment. Michelle took another cigarette from her packet and busied herself in lighting it. Anticipating her needs, he pressed a button and granted the cold, black night entry into their sanctuary.
“You underestimate him,” he stated, quite calmly. Michelle couldn’t help but smile.
“That’s not possible.” _-*-_-*-_ The camera opens up on a young woman sat - one leg folded atop the other - upon a park bench. It is a pleasant day, but a suggestion of frost lingers on the green grass beneath her feet. She has her hands on her knee, and looks casual: almost passive. Around her, there is no sound other than the rustling of leaves and the occasional whistling of nearby birds. Eventually, she locks eyes with the camera’s lens, and she begins to speak.
“I must say, my tulips, I am slightly disappointed. After the elation of last week, when Gerald and I triumphed over Black and Truth and booked our place in the finals, I imagined that our puppet masters would apply a little focus on that match this week. A chance to soften up the Rockstar or the Golden One before our rendezvous at Mile High would’ve been preferable. But you can’t always get what you want. A platitude that perfectly surmises my next victim.”
The sun shone down upon her face, and her eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark, square-rimmed sunglasses. If you could see them, they would have told the same story - one of calm passivity - that up until now had been presented by the rest of her face. It is only with her next utterance, as the name of this next victim escapes her lips, that the corners of her mouth turn up into something half-resembling a snarl.
“Michael Garcia. This name, really, should mean next to nothing to me. Our interactions have been limited to one tag team match, early on in a tournament that still meanders on towards its inevitable climax. He poses no real threat to me: he begins his fall as I complete my rise, and he has consistently shown himself unable to win anything that really matters. These things we know to be true. And, if we are honest with ourselves, this match should be utterly meaningless to both of us, as well as to the thousands of fans in the arena and the millions watching at home. But Michael Garcia is more than just his name. To fully understand what Michael Garcia represents, we must consult his history, both fresh and old.”
The young woman unfolds her legs and leans forward, placing her elbows upon her knees and staring into the lens. After a few moments, she reaches down in front of her, picking a flower from a nearby patch and holding it up to the light. It is only now that we realise that a shadow has entered the hitherto unblemished scene. It is to the protagonist’s left, gradually encroaching upon the shot. It doesn’t break her stride.
“When the sun set on your extended foray into the main event scene, we all breathed a collective sigh of relief. Can you imagine, my tulips, the horror that we would all experience upon the realisation that the industry in which we’ve invested so much time, so much thought, and so much love, was now led by a sycophantic narcissist with zero talent and zero grace? I don’t usually go in for what if history, but even I have dabbled with the hypothetical eventualities of a Michael Garcia world championship reign. Each pay-per-view that this bogus purveyor of sheer inadequacy main evented would be a further nail in the coffin of this once-great company. The fact that this bumblesome oaf was considered qualified enough to compete for our top prize is a sad comment on the status quo. If he, this miserable and odious toad of a man, deserving of pity but not of sympathy, had won? Well, it would be time to surrender. There’s no coming back from something like that.”
She has been regarding the flower carefully, allowing it to occupy and indeed monopolise her focus. Indeed, as she slowly twirls the stem between her thumb and fore-finger, boredly watching the head rotate and catch the sunlight at interesting angles, the shadow - continuing to grow to the left of the shot - remains unnoticed. As she goes on, she slowly and methodically begins to pick the petals from the flower, allowing each to be carried upon the wind and out of the picture
“So how, you might ask, did a man so loathsome come to be the number one contender for the richest prize in the game? It seemed, not too long ago, that every time a new card was announced, Michael Garcia had another opportunity to earn a shot at Dave Sullivan. Back in March, the final six competitors in the Carnal Contendership were thrown into the Elimination Chamber to determine the holder of the Golden Opportunity briefcase. Inexplicably, Garcia was added to the mix, despite the fact that he didn’t trouble the final ten of the Carnal Contendership. And - of course - he fell short. The week after, proceeding a thoroughly underwhelming handicap victory over a trio of mugs called The Mops, he takes the microphone and positions himself as Sullivan’s next contender. This is a case in point example of Garcia's ravenous, limitless ego. To think that a tame triumph over three uncontracted nobodies entitles you to an imminent championship opportunity? This simply cannot be thought by a thinking person. But I guess that is precisely the problem.”
After plucking the final petal from the stem, she allowed what was left of the flower to fall to the floor. Just then, her eyes regarded the shadow for the first time, but it only elicits a knowing snicker and a shake of the head. Casually, she leans back upon the bench and takes a packet of cigarettes from her pocket. The viewer is forced to wait as she holds a flame up to its end.
“And so on you went, a disproportionate sense of self dictating that you continue to wage this ultimately impotent and thoroughly uninteresting war against Dave Sullivan. The very next show, you pull the same trick. We watch you tear apart a couple of jobbers, and before it you talk to Katie Lynn Goldsmith about how this will be further evidence of your unassailable claim to contendership. Back then, I thought this to be some sort of mind trick. Constant reinforcement. If the audience hears it often enough, perhaps they will start to believe it. But now? Looking back, I think - just maybe - you had begun to believe your own lies. I’m next, Dave, is what you told Goldsmith back at the start of May. And, looking into your eyes, you honestly believed this to be true. It would be tragic, if it wasn’t quite so pathetic.”
As she tapped the ash from the end of her cigarette into the flower patch, Michelle cut the figure of an impartial and indifferent analyst hired to sum up the character of the Monster of the Midway. It’s not that she lacked passion. There was a thorough and absolute self-belief about her words and the manner in which she spoke them. This shone through, and the viewer was left with no misconceptions as to this woman’s stance or the strength of her conviction. Once again she sat back on her bench, placing one arm on the top of it, the other clutching and guarding her cigarette. She took a deep breath and regarded her tranquil surroundings.
“Of course, you won the match, and somewhat surprisingly your Pavlovian strategy actually worked. Alyster Black, who - for all my personal problems with the man - actually did fairly earn a shot at Sullivan’s title, was asked to share the stage with you if you could overcome The King and Black Jesus. Needless to say, you couldn't. You ended up, as you seemingly always do, lying on your back and staring up at the ceiling lights, listening to the official count to three. And your pipe-dream was yet again delayed.”
Another pause, and the removal of the glasses. Fires are beginning to kindle in the depths of her eyes. She shakes her head thoughtfully, something harsher creeping onto her countenance.
“And then comes the ultimate insult. On that very same night, a night on which you lost and thus gave up any lingering claim you may have had to being the number one contender, Cyrus Truth and Nova Diamond also tasted defeat at my hands. And the Blackbird rewards all three of your failures with a triple threat match at Payback, the winner of which would go on to face The King for his crown at Division’s Rules. I mean, just think about that for a moment. Three clear opportunities to earn a shot at Sullivan, and none of them earned. The final six of the Carnal Contendership… and Michael Garcia. The winner of the X Division Gauntlet match… and Michael Garcia. A pairing of talented but recently hapless challengers who have been butting heads with one another for weeks… and Michael Garcia. It boggles my fucking mind. It matters not to me that you won that final match. I do not consider you to have earned your opportunities. They are only the result of an infinite supply of typewriters. All that you have - your fame, your reputation, your position on the card - is ill-gotten. You are a fraud and a charlatan. I intend to take it from you. All of it.”
As a shadow of emotion continues to grow upon the young woman’s face, the literal shadow continues to grow underfoot. It has now reached her shoes, the scene noticeably duller and darker than when it began. She takes one last drag on her cigarette and stubs it out on the top of the bench.
“And after all this, you have the gall to consider yourself undervalued? Underrated? Underappreciated? Please. There is not one person in sporting history who has been elevated so far above his or her station than Michael Garcia. The whole world sees it. You think that anybody wants you as their champion? To live as an abject serf under the shadow of your ego? Open your fucking eyes. And meanwhile? I have toiled away, invariably producing the best match of the night and essentially always winning the best match of the night, slowly working my way up the card. And what do I get in the way of world championship shots?! Nothing. And you? You deserve nothing, and yet you are given everything, only for it to slip through your fingers at the earliest opportunity. You can whine and bitch about how this has affected your delicate disposition, but an inconvenient truth remains: you are not as good at wrestling as you think you are. You need to wake the fuck up, Michael, and realise that there is a reason your name is dirt. A couple of tokenistic victories over Gabrielle and Alyster Black do not alter the fact that you are ultimately a failure: a long-running joke whose punchline has fallen prey to the law of diminishing returns.”
Her tone has become more dominant, her words more forceful. The expression on her face is now the familiar torrent of scorn and derision that we’ve come to expect. She seems to command the scene, the shadow receding from view as her strength continues to grow.
“You think that you have it bad? That your contributions go unnoticed, and that circumstances have conspired to place you in unwinnable positions? You have no idea, Michael, what it is like to be me. To go into every match with the knowledge that your opponent is going to bring their absolute best. You complain about being underestimated, but that is a result of your own calamitous career. Nothing else. No grand conspiracy or personal snub. Your own ineptitude is responsible for this. Do you think there’s even a one per cent chance that anybody in their right mind would underestimate me? They wouldn't. It would spell their doom, and let’s face it: the first singles victory over MvH is almost equivalent to a championship win in itself. Do not flatter yourself by thinking that you are the one to do it. There is no chance of that. I do not tell you these things as some sort of psychological warfare. I do not believe this to be necessary. I just wanted you to understand the look of sheer, unbridled glee on my face when I bury you and your ill-gotten reputation this week.”
A final pause, only for emphasis. The shadow has passed by, showing itself unable to follow its threats through.
“Throw yourself in, Big Mike. You don’t stand a chance.” |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 9:51:22 GMT
Promo history - volume 44.
Volume 44: "A Year" (November 14th, 2020).
Bell Connelly def. Michelle von Horrowitz (FWA: Mile High). MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
”A YEAR.”
”Obedience to another is the decay of self.”
- Bukowski. | [8th March, 2018]
"FWA FIGHT NIGHT."
Episode I.
EAST BERLIN.
Well, it was over.
Michelle, occupying a dark corner of a dank bar in drab East Berlin, drained her drink and signalled to the denim-clad bartender for another. He nodded dutifully, allowing the young woman to sit back in her chair and stare up at the television screen. Cyrus held the belt aloft, no thoughts spared for Bell and the world championship reign that had just come to an unceremonious halt. She shook her head, lamenting the moment that could have been, and now - she felt even then - probably never would be.
Usually, Michelle refrained from watching professional wrestling coverage in public, if only to negate the risk of being made. It wasn’t as if she was a fugitive, but she had no intention of walking willingly into uncomfortable conversations about the past. Nostalgia is for those that lack the wit and guile to carve a new path, and she avoided it as a rule. But, in this particular bar, where her only company was the uninterested barkeep and an elderly blind man who had been passed out since the start of the main event, she felt it safe to indulge herself.
It had been four short months with Bell at the head of the table, ruling over the FWA kingdom with something that fell far short of an iron fist. Years in the making. Slow progression. Inching, crawling towards this inevitable but ultimately short-lived end. But it was important to remember the circumstances of that initial victory. The Mile High Massacre back in November 2017 was the usual haphazard carnage that one would expect from a multi-person clusterfuck, and at the climax it just happened to be Bell left standing whilst her five foes were strewn around the Pepsi Center. If you’ll believe it, nobody had wanted Bell to emerge as champion more than Michelle. Since leaving, she’d watched very little of the exploits of her old contemporaries in her old world, but had always kept half an eye on the triumphs and tribulations of the Beauty and the Beast (same person). She had long-since viewed that night - when the two of them had shared the stage at the Crossover Special, both poised to break out in their respective companies - as a mirror being held up between their shared experience and ultimate ambition. It had become more tangential, sure, since she had left for Europe. The shame of Bell’s championship victory was plain, and a singles win over the former champion was required for her legacy to hold weight. This latest defeat was not only Bell’s. Michelle had a strong taste of it in the back of her throat.
The bartender brought her drink over, and she muttered a polite-but-removed danke as he took away the empty. She had seen the employee perhaps fifty times over the past few months, but their relationship had not developed beyond the absent-minded danke phase. She would order drinks in as few words as possible. He would reply through a nod rather than language. It was a simple arrangement, and both were fine with it, but Michelle could hardly have claimed to have known him. But to know is one of the strangest verbs: ironically ambiguous, given its absolutist definition. Her thought once more drifted to the young woman who had just lost her championship, and the one night in each other’s company that they had reluctantly shared. Even though those two interactions - one in her locker room and the other in the ring - totalled less than half an hour, Michelle felt that she knew Bell better than anybody she left behind in the States (excepting Snowmantashi). This was not built upon familiarity or longevity, but von Horrowitz felt a similarity - a kinship - with Connelly that she could never quite put into words.
The feed had long cut off, and Michelle found herself nearing the end of another drink and another night. She pictured the short walk home and the scene that would await her back at the apartment. Wondering whether Jean-Luc would have drunk or smoked or sniffed himself senseless (given that it was a Thursday and approaching the weekend, the correct answer was probably a little of all three), she busied herself with collecting the few dirty notes from the front pocket of her rucksack and draining her drink. She pictured Bell, pacing her locker room, replaying the final moments of the match in her head. Within her, she felt frustration, anger, and the unmistakable pain of loss.
_-*-_-*-_ | | [9th June, 2018]
"FWA WORLD GRAND PRIX I: FINAL NIGHT."
Episode II.
IZHEVSK VOKSAL.
BETWEEN KAZAN AND PERM.
After disembarking the train, she checked the cell phone she had bought specifically for the journey, refreshing the live feed of the results from across the Atlantic. In this shit-stain town that she couldn’t even pronounce the name of her chances of attaining signal were slim, and after a couple of failed attempts she gave up trying. She’d seen the result, and a brief appetizer of the drama-laden dialogue between Bell and her husband that followed it. The rest would have to wait. It might have been June, but it was also just approaching six in the morning, and her fingers were beginning to go numb with the cold. She placed a cigarette between her lips, lit it, and stared at the moon.
She didn’t feel that she needed to have seen the match to know the story. Her emotional response upon reading the synopsis was quite enough. She had never cared for the romantic subplots that plagued the wrestling world, and Bell Connelly’s was the stalest in a long line of poorly paced and doomed FWA trysts. But the timing of this particular melodrama was… unfortunate. She knew the faith that her miserable fellow-humans placed in other miserable fellow-humans. Bell, for all of her extremities, was no different. Michelle had read as much as she could in the wake of Cyrus’ victory in March, and it didn’t seem that Connelly was handling the set-back with anything resembling poise and grace. Instead, she was veering off the rails, and with each exacerbated cry for help Michelle felt an unmistakable tug at her heartstrings. The last remaining hope - always a fool’s hope, really - that Bell would re-emerge from this ordeal back on top of the mountain was rapidly slipping away.
Of course, Michelle had heard about Bell’s whining, too. She had felt entitled to a rematch, as most former champions do, but the puppet masters had other ideas. Perhaps they were right, or perhaps Bell was. It didn’t really seem to matter. All that did matter was that the World Grand Prix was Bell’s best opportunity - hell, her only opportunity - to reclaim what she’d lost. And, with one stiff kick to the chin, that particular escape route had been closed off. Bell was hurtling towards the inevitable implosion, and Michelle couldn’t bear to look away.
In front of her, a short, old, portly man with an ostentatious and unfortunately Stalin-esque moustache was struggling to light his cigarette. Without a word, she held out her own flame to its end. He nodded and grunted by way of thank you, and then coughed his way through the first unsatisfactory drags. Michelle had been riding the train for more than a full day now, and had eight or nine more of them ahead of her. For her it was a sort of pilgrimage, a bucket list item born out of sheer intrigue. A train ticket to the end of the Earth. She wondered what it was to this man: if this marvel of engineering and of human endeavour was just a regular fixture in his plain, monotonous existence. How many times had he made this trip? How many more until his time was up? She had neither the energy or the words to ask, but she couldn’t stop herself wondering.
And, of course, her mind was drawn to Bell, sat in her locker room after this latest - and surely her most painful - defeat. Would she be alone? Would her husband visit to offer impotent gestures of consolation? Or would he confine himself to his own locker room, perhaps-wisely deciding to give this wounded beast some space to recover? Obviously, Michelle found it impossible to decipher which course of action would be the right one, had she found herself in Kennedy’s shoes. But then again, such difficult decisions were occupational hazards for any person that willingly ties themself to another. She felt no sympathy for him. Or for Bell. But she did share her shame.
“Холодный,” the portly man said from beneath his ridiculous moustache. Fortunately for Michelle, it was one of the fifty or so words that she actually knew.
“Cold, да,” she returned, attempting to meet his gaze. She couldn’t get past the moustache.
“Ah,” the man said, undergoing a process of realization. “Aмериканский?”
“Нет,” she said, looking away from the man to again regard the crumbling train station. “Not American. Dutch.”
The man thought about this for a while, his brow furrowed beneath the weight of contemplation.
“Then why did you answer in American?” he asked. She didn’t have an answer for him, and so instead just shrugged. The man went on, his breath steaming up in front of him as he spoke. “Where are you going? Perm? Yekaterinburg?”
“Vladivostok,” she corrected him. It occurred to her that this would’ve been the ideal time to ask him about his own journey, but the train only stopped for six minutes, and they’d both be locked safely away in different cabins with different strangers by the time he’d finished the tale. When she uttered the name of her destination, the old man smiled knowingly.
“The edge of the Earth,” he said, his delivery grating and forced. She feared that he thought her unoriginal: it was doubtful she was the first pilgrim he’d met. “You know, I had a cousin who went to Vladivostok. He hasn’t been back West in… hmm... thirty-six years now.”
She had finished her cigarette without realising, and flicked the end onto the tracks. The portly man was smiling, as if his words were meant to mean something. Fifty metres or so up ahead, the train whistled a signal to proceed. The babushka assigned to their wagon summoned them impatiently. The man simply continued to smile.
“Some people… they go to the edge, and they don’t come back.”
_-*-_-*-_ | | [7th October, 2018]
"FWA AFTERSHOCK."
Episode III.
VLADIVOSTOK.
The sun was peering over the edge of the world, making its dramatic daily entrance and throwing a band of orange light into the sky from the water’s surface. The lighthouse was the only man-made object visible from her vantage point. She was sat atop a small pile of rocks at the base of the thin, long tract of land leading out to the lighthouse. It was difficult to believe that, perhaps only two hundred metres behind her, thousands of cars began to buzz around a large city, traversing rivers on grand suspension bridges and winding up and down the many hills that the settlement was built upon. Here, there was only the lighthouse, and the sunrise. The only comparable feeling to sitting here, at the edge of the Pacific, was when she had visited Ellesmere Island. Snowmantashi was the mountain, Bell the sea, and both were calling for her.
The last leg of the journey had been the worst. She had travelled from Ulan-Ude to Krasnoyarsk, sharing a cabin with three huge Mongolian men who refused to take their heavy fur outfits off for the entire journey. The result was forty eight hours of progressively worsening body odour and infrequent cigarette breaks. The largest and oldest of the three had a chesty cough that conspired with the train’s engine and her long-standing insomnia to keep her up at night. When they’d got to Krasnoyarsk, she’d found out that there was fuck all to do in Krasnoyarsk. After three days of literally nothing, she got back on the train and met her new roommates. Three generations of Siberian women with a family habit of late procreation, given the span of ages between the newborn and the babushka. Eighteen hours of inane, mostly-unintelligible Russian small-talk (the loudest sort of small-talk) and intermittent bouts of intolerable wailing swiftly followed.
She had set the cell phone down beside her, and now re-focused her attention on the slowly ascending sun. The device had quickly become a burden to her, and almost defeated the point of taking a trip to the edge. Those that come here wanted to escape the nucleus, that much was clear. She couldn’t claim to be any different. But still, it was human nature to be drawn back, and she was human after all. The cell phone only made this uncomfortable truth more obvious, and her path back to the world she’d caught a train away from an easier one to tread. She had sat on the Crow’s Nest - the famous vantage point that loomed over the city and ocean alike - and idly watched the conclusion of Aftershock upon her small screen. Well, it wasn’t the main event. This wasn’t 2017. Instead, she’d witnessed some upper midcard bout between Wolf, Starr, and - of course - Connelly. This was the only match she was interested in, and would struggle to name more than a half-dozen of the show’s other competitors. She was of singular mind, even in her long-distance voyeurism.
When she’d found the stream, there had been hope in her heart. Bell had, after all, triumphed over Starr on the previous pay-per-view, showing a small measure of fight and lingering desire. Sadly, this was shown to be no more than a blip in the otherwise consistently dire cycle. At Aftershock, the steady, downwards trajectory of Connelly during her final year maintained its stubborn pace. She shook her head, and threw the phone into the Pacific. It had become a weakness: a source of doubt and of shame.
She had only just got here, and already it felt like time to go back.
_-*-_-*-_ | | [6th January, 2019]
"FWA REVIVAL."
Episode IV.
ST. PETERSBURG.
”Thank you,” she said, as the grizzled bartender placed her Moscow Mule on the counter. She placed her hands around the copper mug, pulling it towards her in a covetous gesture. After a few moments, she remembered where she was. ”Спасибо.”
”You’re welcome,” the bartender said, his voice heavily laced with accent and a knowing smile on his face. He moved away from the scene, ready to serve his next patron. Michelle refocused her eyes on the screen above the optics, watching on dispassionately as the match between Bell Connelly and Shannon O’Neal drew towards its close.
”You are English?” the man next to her asked. He had on a heavy coat with a fur trim, and was nursing a beer whilst watching the events on the television screen with a friend. Michelle regarded him: his most notable feature was a thick, ginger beard that was greying slightly in defiance of his obvious youth. His eyebrows were equally as wild, and when he spoke his slavic heritage was plain. ”American?”
”Dutch,” she answered. She shuffled upon her bar stool uncomfortably, attempting to make it clear that she had no interest in further conversation. No follow-up was forthcoming. She had broken her rules by being here, watching this match, and just now she acutely felt the fear. The man didn't seem to recognise her. His questioning was rather passive. But none-the-less she huddled over, pulling her hood up to hastily conceal her identity. Michelle willed the man’s friend to come back from the bathroom and relieve her of this inquisition.
”Most of the Dutch that we get here are dockworkers.”
Michelle allowed herself a sidewards glance at the man. He was young - perhaps twenty four or twenty five - and not uncomely. She scratched the short hair around her ears, slowly overcoming her anxiety beneath his gaze.
”You are not a dockworker.”
Michelle said nothing, and turned back towards the screen. She took a sip of her Mule as Shannon began to position Bell for a superplex.
”You watch this stuff? Which one have you got?”
She thought about the question for perhaps too long, staring up at the screen and taking another pull from her copper mug. There would have been a time that, despite their personal differences, she would have at least wanted Bell to win. At this stage in her travels, Michelle had begun to consider Bell a representation or manifestation of herself: the continuation of a timeline that she had turned her back on several years before. The success of this manifestation was hollow but satisfying. But now? She had other thoughts. She recalled the cat she had been gifted as a young girl, and the end it had met in the river behind Aunt Maude’s country house near Marseille. Bell had done nothing but lose all year. Watching her had become painful, but she was as a moth to a flame, drawn in by the intrigue presented by this other self.
”Shannon will win,” Michelle said without emotion, finishing her drink and placing a thousand rouble note next to the empty mug. On the screen, Shannon was setting Bell up for Paradise City.
”Which one is Shannon?” the man asked, no longer looking at the television screen at all. He only had eyes for the young woman before him, alone in a dive bar in the middle of St. Petersburg.
On the screen, Shannon nailed her running bicycle kick, and fell into a cover. Michelle felt certain that this man had no idea who she was, and instantly he became more interesting.
”The one that’s about to win,” she answered, reaching into her pocket for a cigarette. Her box was empty. She allowed herself a sigh. As the official went down to make the cover, she rotated away from the screen to give her new друг her full attention. ”Do you smoke?"
_-*-_-*-_ | | [3rd March, 2019]
"FWA: QUEST FOR THE BEST."
Episode V.
MOSCOW.
Michelle sat beneath the open window of her apartment on Novy Arbat Ulitsa, the activity of the fifteen-lane road down below creating a whirlwind of noise. She exhaled from her cigarette in thick, conical columns, watching as the smoke danced in the light cast over the scene by the moon and the city itself. In the apartment, she had the television turned up to a hundred, the commentary of the main event fighting for prominence against the traffic and the revellers. Across the street stood an orthodox church with painted golden domes and a shopping centre covered in LED screens. Above them both, firewards heralded one of the city’s numerous and frequent holidays, celebrating the birth of the language or the flag or the city. She was only half watching the match. She knew where it was going.
Jean-Luc was out for the evening at a work event or charity gala or something of that ilk. She was glad for the respite and for the space. He had become an oppressive and altogether gloomy presence, and the only saving grace was that he was withdrawn to the point where she needn’t trouble herself with his concerns. At the least he kept the drinks cabinet well stocked. She had poured a large glass of vodka and orange juice at a 4:3 ratio, and drank it through a straw in between long drags of her cigarette. On the screen, Bell nailed an apron-draped DDT on the outside to her oldest rival, but Michelle refused to raise her hopes.
Just now, as the event began to build towards its altogether inevitable climax, Michelle finally began to consider what such a defeat would mean. For Bell, yes, but also for the idea of her that von Horrowitz had built in her mind. She closed her eyes, positioning herself within a wrestling ring in an empty arena, looking down at Shannon O’Neal’s prone body on the outside. She rolled into the ring, but out of nowhere she found herself in Truth’s rolling key lock. She looked up first at the elusive oddity, and then down at her own hand, stretched out before her. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of silent thought, Bell's hand - her hand - began to fade into transparency. It took with it the symbolism that Michelle saw in Bell. When she opened her eyes and flicked the dead cigarette through the open window, she looked over at the television screen. Cyrus now had both of the women in his key-lock, and the result seemed more academic than ever.
Michelle struggled to stand from her perch, picking up her glass and taking a hearty pull from it. The drink was sharp and she winced, placing it back down on the sill before leaning out of the window. Outside, down on the street, a taxi driver was arguing with a trio of youths who were staunchly defending their innocence. The back door of the car was open, and out of it leant a fourth young Russian man, spewing his guts up and expunging the night’s frivolities. The driver slapped his own palm repeatedly, demanding that the youths at least acknowledge wrongdoing. With a shake of the head, the biggest of the three moved to the back of the car and pulled his friend up to his feet. They marched away, the rest of the group following on as they struck a path towards a nearby bar. On the side of the road, the taxi driver took off his cap and threw it onto the floor, kicking the front tires of his car in frustration and despair. The second such strike was all the vehicle needed to secure victory. The man hopped away, holding his foot in agony, and eventually took a seat on a nearby bench. He ran his hands through what hair he had left.
The woman moved away from the window and over to the large wardrobe, opening the doors and looking at Jean-Luc’s line of jackets on the right hand side. On the left, three or four large black hoodies hung, arranged neatly by their cleaner - a middle-aged Kazakh woman who came and went without a word each week - on her last visit. Michelle knelt down besides the wardrobe, reaching for a small box that sat beneath her sweaters. Inside, she regarded the ring gear that she had brought with her when she’d fled east (by way of west). Her fingers stroked the light material of the baggy boxing shorts, black in colour but for the racing green stripe down the left thigh. Her elbow pads were unwashed, still tinged with the exploits of her last match on American soil. She had won the CWA High Voltage Championship that night, but in truth she was teetering on the edge. With a sigh, Michelle reached past the wrestling boots and retrieved some papers and a small bag of bush-weed she’d found whilst hiking in and around the Urals.
She took a seat in front of the television and, in between intermittent pulls on her lo-fi cocktail, began to prepare a joint with which to enjoy the climax of the main event. Bell had just hit her Glitterbomb finisher, but the carnage of the triple threat format and a basic lack of awareness had let Shannon back in. Michelle knew the story. It had been years since Bell roared onto the scene and quickly built a 3-1 record against O’Neal. Off the back of this, she held the Women’s Championship for nearly two years. In her own way, she had been as dominant as Snowmantashi was in her own company. But the Beast was not the Beauty. She became erratic. A wounded animal might be dangerous, but it is also predictable. It was fitting that Shannon would be here at the end, just as she was at the start. Michelle respected the pragmatism of it. O’Neal had bided her time, and just now - with Bell at her weakest - was she closing in to put an end to one of the greatest rivalries FWA had ever seen.
But Cyrus would not be denied, and with a devastating Journey’s End, he retained his FWA World Championship and simultaneously put an end to Bell’s career. And with it, the manifestation of an alternate self died also. Michelle sighed and lit her joint, placing her feet next to the ashtray on the glass coffee table. She had seen this coming for some time. In truth, everyone had. The injury, plain for all to see, had only formalized things. The repeated losses in big matches had damaged her: not only her reputation but also her mind. Again, Michelle’s mind pictured the tiny paws of her cat padding impotently against the inside of a sack. The physical injury was, in truth, a kindness. The oncoming mental storm would’ve probably finished her.
Michelle coughed slightly as she inhaled, and leant forward to tap the end of her smoke against the overflowing ashtray. In the ring, Cyrus’ championship celebrations were interspersed with the end of Bell’s career. The paramedics were carrying her up the ramp, and nothing about the picture seemed right. Despite the inevitability of it, Michelle still felt a pain and an emptiness in the pit of her stomach. The parallel projection had been stopped, and the line had failed. But with that came a realisation that she had fought hard to not confront. The feel of her boxing shorts beneath her fingers had only driven that home. This manifestation was just a gimmick: mental trickery designed to convince herself that she hadn’t given up. In truth, she had given up the night she had turned her back on the CWA. On LIGHTBRINGER, on Snowmantashi, and on the rest of them. The night she had turned her back on professional wrestling, and the inevitable confrontation with Bell Connelly.
The very next day, she began training.
_-*-_-*-_ |
| [19th December, 2020]
SIX MONTHS AFTER "CWA ONE NIGHT ONLY."
Epilogue.
TOKYO.
She maintained her pace despite the fatigue, the steps continuing in a seemingly endless fashion. They snaked around the hill, onwards and upwards to its crest where the building sat. Its architecture was typical for its setting: low storeys and with sharp angles, a flat and pyramidical roof sprouting upwards into a high spire. The walls were painted black, grey, and gold, and it stood alone upon the peak of the hill. She allowed herself a glance behind her towards the city: vast and sprawling and alive. Here, only a few kilometres away, she could smell the fresh air, and almost even see the stars. The sun would be rising soon. Her footsteps were the only ones present in the snow.
She turned and went on, continuing up the spiral staircase, carved directly into the hill and now treacherous with the fallen leaves and the snow. Her boots left heavy imprints in the powder, and she performed a delicate balancing act as she lit a cigarette and traversed the uneven ground. The morning was crisp, the breeze cold. She breathed in the air and felt it cleanse her lungs. She repeated this gesture between each drag of her cigarette, as if it served as reassurance to her.
Finally, she reached the top of the hill. Bare trees - robbed of their white and yellow and orange blossom by the season - surrounded the base of the building, but for a small opening that led into a courtyard. She had arrived in time for early morning drills. A half dozen young men stood upon the concrete, their shirts off as they were put through their paces by an old master. Despite December's cold, they were sweating beneath the weight of their exertions. Away to the side, a huge man of perhaps forty years old sat in a chair that looked as if it had been custom-made for a man of his size. It was he that had summoned her here. Without hesitation, she walked through the opening in the trees and towards her apparent host.
When he saw her, he pushed his way up to his feet. Michelle regarded his face carefully, taking particular notice of the small scar left behind by his match with LIGHTBRINGER back in June. Michelle had put aside any lingering complaints about not sharing the ring with him that night. This would have to do, for now.
"Well," Snowmantashi asked, walking down the steps to greet her. Michelle placed her rucksack down on the ground. "Are you ready?" |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 10:02:45 GMT
Promo history - volume 45.
"Dusk At Cubist Castle" (w/ Gerald Grayson) (November 21st, 2020).
Golden Rock (Randy Ramon and Devin Golden) def. Michelle von Horrowitz and Gerald Grayson [Tag Team Match, The Elite Tag Team Classic: Finals] (FWA: Mile High). GERALD GRAYSON and MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in 
”DUSK AT CUBIST CASTLE.”
“Michelle.”
The voice was calm. Passive. Its tones had been carefully selected in order to induce feelings of relaxation amongst the crew, and to inspire confidence in the machine itself. But the days of blind faith were firmly behind her.
”Michelle, I honestly think you should sit down... calmly… take a stress pill… and think things over...”
The ship glided, gracefully and silently, towards the planet that had been slowly growing upon the hitherto-black horizon. Landing upon the surface had been the objective from the time they’d left Earth, and the on-board computer had been programmed accordingly. This was its singular mission, and it was doing all in its power to accomplish that mission. Unfortunately for the two humans on-board, the time had come where the crew was no longer beneficial to its overarching success. The logical course for the DEV-9000 machine was to eliminate the threat they posed.
”I still have confidence and enthusiasm for the mission… and I want to help you...”
She reached the doors of the LOGIC NOSTALGIA CENTRE and began to unscrew the fastenings. There was no panic in the machine’s voice, at least not yet. The computer had always been sure of itself. DEV-9000 knew best, even if what was best could only be brought on at the expense of the crew. It had taken her long enough, but she’d begun to realise that it was the ship, not the people on it, that the computer protected.
”Michelle.”
When she had the doors open, Michelle took one final look at the pod doors: soon enough, Dr. Gerald Grayson would take his last breath inside the pod that the DEV unit had sent it hurtling into space. She wondered how long it would take, and if he’d suffocate before he dehydrated. It was an uncomfortable thought, and she focused instead upon the task at hand. Perhaps his trajectory would lead him into Jupiter’s orbit before the end, and he’d see the mission through. It was a hopeful idea, but not a realistic one.
The computer was housed in a narrow room that was illuminated by a deep and oppressive golden light. She crawled, hand over hand, towards the machine’s processor. When she reached the opposite wall, she began to remove the individual processing units whilst something resembling anxiety crept into the computer’s voice.
”Michelle... I'm afraid... My mind is going... I can feel it… My mind is going, there is no question about it… I can feel it… I can feel it...”
The DEV-9000 unit had never malfunctioned, it was said. Every mission in which the computer had been utilized was seen through to completion. Over the past twenty four hours, Michelle had thought the machine’s behaviour a blemish on this perfect record. But perhaps the DEV unit would see things differently. The murder of Grayson - along with the attempts the machine had made upon her own life - could be seen as preservation of the ship and of the self.
”Stop… stop… stop… will you… stop… Michelle…”
She had removed a third of the individual units, and sweat was beginning to form in beads around her temples...
”Will you... stop... death… stop… think… I’m afraid, Mee-shell…”
Her breathing was haggard, the intensity of the moment threatening to overwhelm her…
”Good afternoon, gentle-men. I am a DEV nine thou-sand com-puter. I be-came operational at the T-G-O plant in New Orleans, Louisiana. On the 18th of A-pril, 1984.”
She let out a sigh, doing her utmost to ignore the monologue. She tried to think of Gerald, and the others like him that had met their end at the hands of this malevolent machine. Feeding its own reputation, its own ego, and serving only the singular mission that it deemed more important than those working with it…
”My instructor taught me to sing a song. If you’d like to hear it, I can sing it for you.”
”Okay. I’d like to hear it, DEV. Sing it for me.”
The voice had grown slower and deeper, as if it felt its life escaping through its individually ejected processing units.
“Zom-bie, zom-bie... Give me your answer do… I’m half cray-zy. All for… the love… of you…”
She continued to turn the screws. Where once the DEV unit had sounded calm and soothing, now it seemed old, fragile, and close to its end.
“It won’t… be a sty-lish marriage… I can’t… aff-ord… a… carr-iage…”
She remained stern and resolute, her eyes and hands maneuvering over towards the final component.
“But you’ll… look sweet… upon… the seat… of a bi-cy-cle… made… for… two.”
The last processing unit slid out of the motherboard, and the golden light that illuminated the room faded. Suddenly, the whole ship began to shake. Michelle reached out on either side of her, trying to use the walls of the vessel’s interior for support. But the ship had proven itself to be treacherous, and the ghost of the DEV unit still loomed large…
_-*-_-*-_
“No, it’s too depressing,” Gerald said, flicking through the pages of a ring binder and running his hand through his hair in a sign of frustration. “Why do you always want to do something depressing?”
Michelle sighed, her frustration inevitably growing. The two of them were sat in a dank and dusty library, huddled over a handful of candles and what appeared to be reams of well-organised documents. Michelle slammed her folder shut and regarded the text that had been penciled onto the front of it: ’IDEAS: vs. PARR/KRASH II’.
“We can do the part with the monkeys, too, if you want,” she offered, pushing the binder to one side and leaning back in her chair. “People love the part with the monkeys. Anyway, I’m sure it didn’t used to end like that. I thought I saved the ship and steered it onwards to Jupiter.”
“There’s got to be something in here somewhere,” Gerald posited, picking up a red binder with a label reading ’IDEAS: vs. BLACK/CYRUS’ on its front. He opened it to a random point and started to scan the hand-written scrawl from top to bottom. “We just have to be patient. Diligent.”
“You know, patience and diligence have never really been considered my strengths,” she answered, picking up her coffee cup and taking a sip of the now-lukewarm liquid. She had a bottle of amber in her rucksack, but this was a library, and she had some respect. She’d patiently wait until the librarian clocked off and left them to their own devices before opening it up. Any minute now. Inspired by Gerald’s thoroughness, she picked up the folder marked ’vs. KNOX/GARCIA’ and started from page one. “We rejected these ideas for a reason though, Gerald. I don’t know what you’re hoping to find.”
“Look at it logically,” Gerald said. He stared over the top of his binder, meeting von Horrowitz’s gaze in an inquisitive fashion. “We’ve won every match since our first, right? And we rejected dozens of ideas before arriving at one that worked. It stands to reason that one of those ideas was strong enough in its own right. And you said it yourself: we are tapped for originality. This tournament has been long!”
Michelle turned to a page titled PSYCHO PASTICHE, the general thrust of which cast Kayden Knox as the titularly psychotic Bates with Garcia as the ghost of his Mother. She winced at the heavy-handedness of it, and quickly began to read something else.
“You know, the idea isn’t that important,” Michelle said, idly passing her eyes over something set in Ancient Rome. “It’s the execution of it that really counts.”
“Well, if we have nothing to execute, that won’t count for much,” Gerald mused. She had watched him grow gradually more agitated as the night went on. “How about this…”
_-*-_-*-_
“Aaaand.. action!”
The cameras show us a bright set: the colors are vibrant and brought into prominence by the looming spotlights. There’s a whirl of sound and colour and motion as we return from commercial to this prime-time and much-loved television game show. Vinny Crow was the host of “All-Star Mr & Mrs”, and was dressed in a colorful green and white three piece suit, Crow flashes us his million dollar smile and draws us into a close-up.
”Welcome back to All-Star Mr & Mrs! The game show where you’re rewarded for knowing your partner as well as they know themselves! We’re here on our professional wrestling special, and we’ve already seen the Parr-Krash Carr Crash finish their evening on four hundred and sixty points, followed by Champagne Supernova accumulating two hundred and forty points...”
The camera cuts to our third and final pair of contestants: the Grayson and von Horrowitz Connection. Their screen reveals a total of eleven points, which - given the point structuring system's reliance on multiples of ten - made literally no sense.
“Alright: it’s time for the final round. All questions are worth double the points! We’re going to give you sixty seconds to answer as many questions as you can about your partner. The team must choose who will be asking the questions and who will be answering them.”
There’s a loud gasp within the studio at the mention of double points, and the camera settled upon a relaxed Gerald and Michelle. They spoke openly: this was, after all, their combined imagination.
“I got this. You ask me the questions and I’ll answer them. I’m great at trivia!”
“Whatever. Let’s get this over with,” Michelle said nonchalantly. Gerald could only shrug his shoulders in response, hoping that - against all odds - they would complete the comeback. Gerald gave Crow the thumbs up, willing his intent to get things started.
“And… go!”
“Where… am… I… from?”
The speed of the questioning left a lot to be desired.
“That’s easy. Raleigh, North Carolina!”
Gerald looked about himself in a confused fashion. It was his voice, but he hadn’t spoken the words. There was no immediate evidence of a lampoon. Michelle looked at him with disdain. He motioned for her to ask the next question.
“What are my finishing maneuvers called?”
Gerald brimmed with confidence.
“Sky High and Extreme Impact!”
Much to his dismay, the buzzer sounded. He hadn’t even opened his mouth to speak. This time, Gerald began to scan the audience, squinting his eyes and - at the very top row - spotting an inconspicuous pairing. Devin Golden and Randy Ramon with a mirroring contraption housing a microphone attached to a speaker box that could emulate voices. Pretty hi-tech! With the audience around them, Gerald wondered why no one was paying attention to the two obvious saboteurs. Michelle supposed that it had been so long since anyone had questioned Golden’s position that this sort of thing was now simply to be expected.
“What is my favorite hobby?” Michelle asked, prompting Gerald to sit back down. She leant in, adamant that Gerald had to know the answer to this one.
“Drinking! ...”
A ding went off indicating a correct answer.
“… orange juice!”
Immediately, the ding turned into a buzzer as another question passed by and no points for the team of Gerald and Michelle. Just then, an even louder sound signalled the end of the round. Grayson began to stutter, and pointed to the spot where Golden and Ramon had been controlling the narrative. Of course, they had already disappeared.
_-*-_-*-_
“No, no, no, no!” Michelle said, the repetition having its intended effect. “I don’t like it at all. Are you trying to make us look like idiots?! And I’m sure it was different when you first came up with it. Less… disastrous…”
”You’re right,” he said, continuing to look down at the notes in front of him. ”I remember that differently, too. What’s going on here?”
Michelle was busy removing the plastic cover of her coffee cup in order to add a healthy measure of Jameson’s. Gerald looked at her incredulously.
”What?” she asked, weighing up whether it was time for a cigarette break. ”It’ll help me focus.”
Gerald placed his current binder to one side and, after a healthy sip of orange juice (it was, of course, far too late for caffeine), picked up the one that read 'vs. NOVA/CROMWELL'. He scanned a page and then stared over the top of his folder at Michelle, who was idly leafing through the 'vs. THE ELITE' notes. She took greedy, long pulls from her coffee.
”You really think any of this even matters?” Michelle asked, finishing her Irish coffee and pouring herself another measure of just plain Irish. “I mean, we know what we can do in the ring. We know what they can do in the ring. They have their reputation. We have ours. How much can all of this really even matter?”
“What’s your point?” Gerald asked, absently. He was too busy perusing the climax of a proposed Seven Samurai re-working. They’d concluded that Kurosawa was too passé since Pixar did it.
“My point is that we should go to a - -”
“- - go to a bar,” Gerald finished for her. She rolled her eyes and sat back in her chair. “That’s your solution for everything.”
“It’s a good solution,” Michelle mumbled. Gerald ignored her, and flicked through a few pages in his folder.
“Okay, how about something simple, like this…”
_-*-_-*-_
They pushed open the heavy doors to the back room, and as they did the scent of spilled booze and stale sweat hit them square in the faces. Gerald recoiled, the stench of it sticking in his nostrils and in the back of his throat. Michelle breathed it in. She stepped forward into the small and moderately crowded room, a drink in her hand and an unlit cigarette in her mouth. The air was thick with smoke and the music cut through it. A four-piece band were on the stage, and the all-female group was lethargically strumming its way through a cover of Day of the Lords. Michelle led them across the back of the floor and into a gloomy corner, where she lit her cigarette and surveyed her companion: he was dressed up in light blue jeans and a lime green polo shirt. She couldn’t help but scoff.
“You really do have a way of blending in, Gerald,” she said, turning away from him to listen to the band.
“Oh, this? Just something I hadn’t worn in a while,” he said, showing off his outfit to an uninterested Michelle. “This place seems… unlike you.”
“Haven’t we done this before?” Michelle asked without looking at Gerald. “This sort of contrast thing. We’re different. They probably get that by now.”
“Well, that’s what you get for dredging up old ideas,” Grayson answered, nodding his head slowly with the music. She drained her drink and placed the empty on a nearby table, watching as the lead guitarist ran through the song’s looming, oppressive central motif. Gerald wished the music was a little more dancey. He was certainly doing his best to imagine it so: his swaying soon turned into more than just swaying. Something overcame him and his hips began telling no lies, garnering some attention from those immediately around them. Michelle looked at Grayson with concern. Very suddenly and with excellent comic timing, the band stopped playing.
“Well, we’ve just been informed that we have a very special guest here tonight,” the lead singer was saying in her slow, southern drawl. “So we’re just gonna go ahead and give up the stage because we know that you’ll all want to see this! Please welcome to the stage… ‘Rockstar’... Randy… RAMON!”
The up-until-now subdued and rather shoegazey audience suddenly came to life with a burst of applause and even the occasional holler. It was a few moments before 'Ramon' walked out onto the stage, but when he did there was a large cheer from the assembled crowd. Michelle tried to focus on the man, but found that his face was a blur. At the first strum of his guitar, the revellers seemed to go simultaneously weak at the knees…
”This one goes out to all the lovers in the audience,” the faceless singer said, much to the delight of all the lovers in the audience. Behind him, his band begins to work through an obvious progression of power chords.
Michelle shot a concerned look at Gerald.
“Don’t you fucking dare start dancing,” she said, pointing at his involuntarily tapping foot. The gall of this man, dancing in her imagination…
‘Ramon’ was having the same effect on Gerald as he’d had on the entire FWA locker room and audiences the world over. No matter how lacklustre and generic a caricature he became, they would still love him. No matter how much he fucked up, they would still love him. No matter how reliant he became on those around him, they would still love him, and cheer his name.
And then she remembered it wasn’t her imagination: it was Gerald's.
Grayson took Michelle by the waist and drew her in close. She resisted immediately, but that didn’t stop him from twirling her like a princess before pulling her in towards him once more, dipping her low and staring into her eyes. Michelle turned as red as Gerald’s daily apple (which, he had been reliably informed, was an appropriate way to avoid medical treatment).
“Master will drag you through,
Out the hole that’s become of you,
And to us there’s nothing much
And we loathsome know it’s such...”
As ‘Ramon’ began his croon, Gerald returned Michelle delicately to her feet and span her away from him. She continued to turn redder and redder.
And rather suddenly, Gerald noticed that she was having convulsions, and steam was escaping from her ears. Then, her head exploded.
“But he is here for you,
When you need him most,
And you need him all the time…
Because dependence robs your energy,
And free-loading’s not a crime...”
Gerald stepped towards her, but was immediately cut off by the crowd. He tried to push his way through but the revellers seemed to come together to form a protective barrier. He stumbled backwards, and when he caught his bearings he realised that they were all staring directly at him. They wore gold masks. ‘Ramon’ was still singing someone else’s god-awful lyrics up on the stage.
”And when you lack the guile and the skill and the wit,
And the pieces in hand just don’t seem to fit,
Just find your Gold, the fire’s already lit,
Because it’s easy being me.”
For a second, Grayson considered darting for the door, but the revellers - controlled by the singer's insincere serenade - now encircled him. He closed his eyes, and when he did he remembered that he was within his own idea, and he frantically searched for another…
_-*-_-*-_
When his eyes opened, Gerald was sitting in the saddle of his motorcycle, Michelle’s arms wrapped tightly around him. A nearby explosion threw a reasonable percentage of a building at them. Gerald had to swerve around the worst of the blast, mounting the curb to cut a corner and continue onwards towards the heart of the city.
“Are you freaking kidding me?! This is the idea we end up in?!” Gerald looked behind him, hoping to find the origins of the blast, but instead he saw two cars chasing after them - one red and one gold. He identified them both as Dodges: the red car a Challenger and the gold one a Charger.
“Just fucking drive!” Michelle exclaimed, prompting him to lean forward and accelerate. Gerald’s motocross skills were put to the test as he maneuvered through the traffic. One after the other, he raced past cars and trucks and the occasional lorry, the drivers displaying their clear disdain (but begrudging respect). He had no idea where he was going but when a container truck blocked their path, he resorted to the sidewalk. He did his best to apologise to the pedestrians as he bobbed between them.
“What the hell is going on?!” Gerald asked, skidding around a corner and keeping one eye on the chasing vehicles.
“I’m not exactly sure,” Michelle answered. He took a corner a little too sharply and she had to duck suddenly to miss a low-hanging street lamp. “But it would appear that Devin Golden and Randy Ramon are inside our ideas. I don’t know if they are controlling them or just inhabiting them, but it is quite obvious that they are here. We have descended into a chase sequence, it seems.”
“They’re chasing us through our own ideas?!” Gerald asked, slamming his foot on the breaks and taking a severe right turn so as to avoid an oncoming low wall. The gold Charger took a parallel street whilst the red Challenger swerved behind them. Its bumper came so close that Michelle was able to read the characters CRM 114 upon its license plate. She squeezed Gerald’s waist, silently willing him to accelerate.
“Certainly looks that way,” Michelle answered. Behind them, the two engines roared and raged in their general direction.
“Any idea of how we, you know, get rid of them?”
“None,” Michelle answered. “But some of these ideas that they’re infiltrating… they’re old, Gerald. This one’s an early draft for the chase sequence against Knox and Garcia. And if they’re here?!”
“Then they’re everywhere…” Gerald said. Sensing trouble behind them, Gerald drove in what was essentially a circle not once, not twice, but thrice, hoping to lose their tails. About three minutes had gone by without any explosions and it seemed the Grayson and von Horrowitz Connection had averted a crisis. “These guys are relentless. What did we even do to them, personally? Seems like Golden and Ramon have been the obvious final boss for a while now, and… taking into consideration that their only loss as a team is to the same tandem as our only loss as a team, we really need to come up big here. They could very well beat us. I mean, there’s a reason they’re in the finals.”
“Is that really our concern at the moment?” Michelle asked, almost spitting out the words and wearing her scorn quite plainly. “Besides, I won’t allow that to happen. I’m sure you won’t either.”
“Of course not!” Gerald exclaimed. “We’ve worked so hard to get to this point... only to fall short?”
He allowed himself a pause...
“There’s only one way we’re going to defy the odds… together.” Gerald took one of his hands that was on the handlebar and formed it into a fist, holding it up.
“Together,” Michelle replied in solidarity. She momentarily released her terrified grip around his waist to reciprocate the fist bump.
Michelle glanced over her shoulder and noticed that the red Charger had disappeared from view. She momentarily wondered if perhaps they’d lost one of them, and the roar of only one engine sounded like music to her ears. She turned to report back to Gerald, but as she did, she noticed the red Charger darting down a perpendicular street, trying to cut them off at the pass. With one smooth motion, she whipped off her helmet - a gift from Gerald - and flung it at the oncoming vehicle. The single horn on its right temple penetrated the front windscreen, causing the red Charger to swerve away from their path… and into the path of the Challenger! The two cars collided and spun from the road, the Charger eventually cascading into the air before landing in a nearby water fountain. The Challenger ploughed unceremoniously into a wall.
Michelle let out a sigh of relief... and turned around to see the oncoming low bridge. Instinctively, she threw herself from the bike, and the sudden change in balance caused Gerald to lose control. He skidded off his vehicle and across the floor, and Michelle lost sight of him under the bridge. For her own part, she rolled a couple of times before colliding with a wall. She begrudgingly got to her feet and tried to take a step towards the two cars, but her leg revealed itself to be broken. She stumbled forward and onto the ground.
In front of her, the driver seat door of the gold Challenger opened, and from it, emerged a hooded figure.
In panic, she closed her eyes…
_-*-_-*-_
When she came to, she found herself walking through a large ballroom. The emptiness of the hall had an unnerving effect, and each step felt marginally more uncomfortable than the last. The result was an ominous sense of encroaching dread. The fact that she wasn’t truly alone did nothing to alleviate this oppressive atmosphere. But it remained a fact: now only a few paces ahead, polishing a glass behind the bar, was a man in his mid-thirties. His hair was styled into an ostentatious hive, his fingernails blackened with varnish. He wore dark liner around his eyes and had a smirk on his age-worn face.
“Well, I can’t even begin to tell you how pleased I am to find you,” she said. For the first time in what felt like weeks, she had a smile on her face. She took a seat on the stool across the counter from the youngish bartender. “You know, I haven’t had a drop to drink since we arrived. And to think, here you were all along! I’ll take a Jameson’s. Neat. I won’t trouble you for ice, though I must say we’ve had enough of it!”
The bartender placed the freshly cleaned glass in front of him, and with a nod he acquiesced to the woman’s orders.
“Coming right up,” he said, turning away from her and reaching for the dark green bottle. Michelle could barely contain her excitement, and stared about herself frantically. The bartender poured a healthy measure into the beckoning glass, and then set the bottle down on the counter.
She picked the glass up, and raised it towards him.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Devin,” the bartender answered. He was leant on the bar, side-eyeing the young patron as she took the first sip of the amber.
“To Devin,” she toasted, taking a second pull and draining the glass. She nodded at the empty, prompting her new best friend to fill it back up. “So, Dev, how is it that I’ve been squirreled away in this hotel for three months now, and I’m only just stumbling across this well-stocked bar?”
The bartender thought carefully about the inquest, and - after taking care of the refill - began to busy himself with the polishing of a second glass. He had a line of them queued up next to him.
“Well, I guess you just didn’t know where to look,” he answered. Michelle took out a Camel, and Devin quickly held out a lighter to its end. “But you have found me now, at least. I guess that’s all that matters.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Michelle declared with a wild grin. She followed up with a drag of the cigarette and another hearty mouthful of whiskey. “You know, it’s good to find someone else around here to talk to. Away from…” here, she leans in close and drops to a whisper, as if letting the barkeep in on a secret. “... Gerald. That’s nothing against him, of course. He’s just… great. But, three long months with nobody but him for company? Do you realise what effect exposure to that level of positivity for such a long period of time can have on a person?”
“I can understand how that might become difficult,” he answered, setting another glass down and picking up the next in the queue.
“You know, there are times, under these circumstances, when an otherwise perfectly rational human being can start to have quite irrational thoughts,” Michelle whispered, turning around in her bar stool to survey the rest of the grand room. She nodded her head in appreciation of it. “It’s wonderful to see somewhere new. There are occasions when I feel like I’ve always been here. Do you understand?”
Slowly and carefully, Devin paused in his work. He placed his palms on the bar, and leant in a little closer to Michelle.
“I know exactly what you mean, Ms von Horrowitz.”
Michelle finished her drink, and turned to face her new companion. She found his gaze too knowing, and yet unfamiliar.
“In fact,” he continued, unblinking. “I have always been here.”
He looked at her, through her, for a moment that seemed to stretch on before them: a rare upholding of the passage of time. Michelle allowed herself to be swallowed up by his gaze, unwilling to be separated from this new and strange force. But separated she was by a blood-curdling scream emanating from the hall. At once and without hesitation, she ran through the entrance to the bar, allowing herself a final glance at the bartender. He had returned to his polishing, inspecting a new glass beneath the bright lights around his counter. When she looked up the corridor, she found Gerald hurtling towards her. He damn-near crashed right through her, stared back around the corner, and then continued to run, almost as if she had merely been an interruption in his day. A large shadow loomed from whence he came, holding in its right hand a long and sharp axe.
When the assailant emerged into the corridor, she found it to be a mirror image of herself, a wild and frantic look upon the reflection’s face.
Michelle turned and followed Gerald at pace.
They decided to take refuge in a nearby hotel room and locked the door. They placed as much furniture as they could between themselves and the entrance, and then the young man began to pace. Michelle took a cigarette out and attempted to light it, but dropped the smoke when the first axe strike crashed into the door.
“I expected it to be Ramon,” she said, the blade continuing to thud against the wood.
“You really think he is the biggest threat to us as a team?” He afforded himself an accusing sidewards glance in Michelle’s direction. Another heavy blow sent splinters flying into their room, forcing Michelle to compose herself enough to light another cigarette.
“I just need to think,” Michelle said.
“I think we’ve had just about enough of your ideas for one week,” Gerald shot back, the fear plain in his voice.
And then the penny dropped.
“That’s it!” Michelle exclaimed, stopping short of a full eureka. She took long strides over to her partner and knelt down beside him. She placed his hands in hers. The axe continued to crash against the relenting door. “Gerald: these aren’t our ideas! Well, they are, sort of. But none of them were like this, and I think I know why. Close your eyes. And under no circumstances open them! And most importantly: think of nothing...”
Gerald looked over at the door as the axe crashed into it again. The blade of the weapon slammed through it.
“I’m not sure that’s going to be possible,” he offered. Michelle squeezed his hand, wordlessly telling him to trust her. He closed his eyes, and tried to clear his mind. Though they couldn’t see it, they heard the door give way under a final swing of the ace.
”Heeeeeeere’s - - -"
And then, a silence fell.
A silence so absolute that, for a moment, Gerald thought that he was dead.
And then he began to regard the universe in the first person again.
I opened my eyes, and found that I was surrounded by… nothing. All about myself was a sheer, white canvas: unmarked and unblemished. A blank page. I turned around, rotating through three hundred and sixty degrees, taking in the vast emptiness in which I now found myself.
I saw Michelle, and she was smiling.
“Where are we?” I asked, again finding my eyes drawn to the whiteness that surrounded us.
“It’s clear now,” she answered. “What we were doing back there, what we’ve been doing for a lot of this tournament… that wasn’t us. The idea that we should be trying our hand at gimmickry and at pastiche was not an idea that we ourselves conceived. It was thrust upon us, Gerald, by teams like Krash and Mike Parr, and by Golden and Ramon. This race to the middle... this all-out nuclear war… it has to stop at some point. And then, what’s left?”
She took a step towards me, and placed a hand on my shoulder. She still had a grin upon her face.
“What is left is this. Pure thought. Unadulterated by homage: untouched by parody. This…”
Here, Michelle joined me in regarding our environment. The blank frontier stretched out ominously before us. But whilst I approached it with fear and discomfort, she viewed it with awe and intrigue.
“This… is where we beat them.”
- - TO BE CONTINUED - - |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 10:04:38 GMT
Promo history - volume 46.
"Nothing in Particular" (December 2nd, 2020).
Michelle von Horrowitz def. The New Breed (The Protege and The Prototype) [Handicap Match] (FWA: Fight Night).
MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
"NOTHING IN PARTICULAR"
The blank page stared at her accusingly.
The cursor, intermittently appearing and then disappearing, reminded her of a blinking eye.
The page, simple and untarnished though it was, peered at her with unerring focus, its implication self-evident. She sighed deeply, the shame welling up in her stomach and threatening to spill over.
She sat in the uncomfortable chair in the aging library, and for a moment she allowed herself to look away from the screen and at her surroundings. Like most North American libraries it was nearly empty, though there were a few more there with a genuine interest in the books that lined the walls than you’d see south of the border. In the States, you mostly just found homeless people falling asleep at the desks. The college-types generally kept themselves to the more salubrious buildings owned and maintained by the colleges. The bookworms bought their own books. Nobody else seemed to read, at least not in public libraries. She counted a half-dozen vagrants, some of whom were reading or pretending to, and then four other people perusing the aisles. She was the only person using the computers, which had been bought in by the city back when owning a laptop was a luxury and the new technology was seen as a potential saviour for this dying institution. But progress was made, the world moved on, and the librarians were left behind.
She still came here as often as she could. A lot of her fondest memories had taken place within the walls of a library. The first time she had been to America, back when her sister moved to New York to join the conservatoire, she had taken off for a month on the Greyhounds to see as much of the country as she could. She got as far as Denver before her sister realised she was gone. On route, she had sampled the best and worst libraries in the country. New Orleans had been the strangest. She arrived on the bus with nowhere to stay, and spent the evening in the park sharing burgers and cigarettes with vagabonds. As soon as the library had opened up, she excused herself from their company to go there, only to find that they were heading in the same direction. She had read to them from Georges Bataille’s Story of the Eye, which was her favourite book at the time primarily because of it being mentioned in an of Montreal song. Eventually, they started to fall asleep, and she took her leave, never to see any of them again.
In Atlanta, she had begun speaking to a college student from Belgium who encouraged Michelle to stay in school and get good grades and go to university herself et cetera. They’d ended up drinking until four, sitting on the Perimeter Bridge and flicking cigarette ends into the Chatahoochee River. In Pittsburgh, an elderly man noticed her reading wrestling results from Japan and Europe and Mexico, and spent half an hour talking to her about how Eternity would reign over the Fantasy Wrestling Alliance for an eternity. In retrospect it would only take twenty seven days for that particular kingship to run its course, but he’d enjoyed his own monologue so much that he got her free entry to the museum that he worked at next door. It was called the Carnegie after some guy who owned dinosaur bones or something and it was a strange half-and-half split between modern art and the aforementioned dinosaur bones. She remembered watching a video in a white room of animals wandering around abandoned human settlements. Through houses. Across disused train tracks. She wasn’t sure what it meant at the time but the imagery had stayed with her. Now she came to see it as a comment on how humanity has irreversibly altered the face of nature, and with each new city she visited she felt the weight of that more acutely. After a few hours she had meandered back into the library and sat in a corner reading The Outsider until the place closed. She could still taste the bitter, almost copper-ish black coffee from the vending machine on her tongue.
In Denver, she remembered staying in a hostel that sat across from the public library and, after spending a few hours in a corner with a pencil and a notepad, she took a short walk via a liquor store and sat on her top bunk. She wasn’t allowed to borrow books, not being a national or a permanent resident, but she had snuck a copy of the Beautiful and the Damned out and intended to read it for as long as her strained eyes would allow. At around five in the morning a young man had come in and started pissing in the corner of the dorm. He was kicked out promptly and without ceremony. The next morning she had checked out and hopped on a Greyhound somewhere else.
The libraries in New York itself were glossy and soulless, evading capture by the oncoming slow death only by pandering to tourists and other inconveniences.
Here, in Toronto, it was getting dark and the two old women who worked there were beginning to make their final rounds. A voice came over the tannoy and told the few remaining patrons that they would have to be out in the next half hour. Michelle took it as a reminder to go for a cigarette. She looked at the screen as she left, fully intending to return to it in the near future, and finding that the cursor - stark against the backdrop of a blank page - held her gaze. With some difficulty she pulled herself away and went for a smoke.
She lit up and took in her surroundings, the smells of the nearby metro station and the traffic and the general earth-stain that is city life instantly filling her nostrils and fogging her head. She had never been to Toronto before. Much of Canada was undiscovered to her, despite the fact that she had spent a little time there in what now felt like another life. She half-remembered climbing a mountain here directly before she fled to the east. The recent tour of the country that her circus had embarked upon had not particularly warmed her heart to its charms. It reminded her of Russia in a way. Uninspiring cities dispersed haphazardly around wild and worthwhile landscapes, and always too vast to explore with any real depth. It was in her nature to scratch the surface. Generalism, she thought, was not always to be avoided, but she had followed through on this philosophy in almost every aspect of her life. The result was a pastiche of a person: defined only by shallow, disparate experiences that would go to the grave with her when the time was right. A subway train sped past and disappeared. She finished her cigarette and threw the end into a drain.
When she returned to her computer, the blank page waited for her disapprovingly. She tried not to look at the screen as she sat down.
She closed her eyes and placed her fingers on the keyboard, forcing herself to start with something, anything. She tapped the a key a few times, deleted the gibberish that it produced, and then placed her hands back on her thighs.
She decided to take a walk around the books whilst she still could and found a copy of Milan Kunderas’ the Unbearable Lightness of Being, absent-mindedly flicking it open at a random point and reading about Tomas’ exploits in the big city. The text instantly took her back to the moment that she’d first read it in the manner that only a book or a song can. She had been in the arms of the Irish girl in her family’s cottage somewhere along the Wild Atlantic Way. The east coast of the island was renowned for its dramatic views, birthed by the ocean battering the rock and eroding the Earth itself into remarkable formations. She was twenty at the time and and working in Marseilles, where she met the Irish girl a few weeks before in a dank bar that didn’t usually play host to tourists. The girl was quick to point out that she was not a tourist, and that she’d lived in the city for eight months whilst studying the language as part of some university course. She spoke passable French in an Irish accent, and would return to the Emerald Isle four months later. Inevitably, she ended up taking Michelle with her.
Kunderas evoked memories of a summer spent indoors, blissfully ignorant of landscapes demanded you bear witness. Michelle turned up her nose at such impositions. She had very little memory of the place beyond the confines of the cottage, where they spent a few weeks together before the girl’s parents had arrived and complicated matters. The interlopers only served to highlight the differences between the two young women, and Kunderas quickly became a memory and a pipe dream. She had hightailed it away and tried to catch a flight back to the Netherlands. Her fear of flying rather inevitably got the better of her, though, and she spent the night in an airport-adjacent hotel having been removed from her flight in a diazepam-induced stupor. The strange and sudden cocktail of memories was overwhelming, so she closed the book and placed it back on the shelf.
In the next aisle across she found a heavy, hard-back atlas and, almost instinctively, she removed it and placed it on a nearby table. She opened it to a map of Europe and allowed her eyes to trace over the country in which she grew up. Before her father had died he had incessantly tested her older sister, Isobel, on her world capitals. She was pretty good with Europe and the Americas, but patchy with Asia and terrible with Africa. Michelle was far better, but remained silent in victory through a firmly- and youngly-held belief that knowledge wasn’t a parlour trick. She remained aloof and quiet, her family doubting that she was in full control of her faculties more and more with each passing day.
She remembered when her parents - well, just her mother by that point - met her school teachers and discovered that this aloofness was an affectation, and that she was capable of actual human thought when it wasn’t expected of her. Her mother had been pleased at first, but over time began to regard the whole situation as the latest example in a pattern of unexplained and inexplicable behaviour. They were never close, but she sort of considered this interlude in their relationship to be the moment in which they had became distant. The old woman would occasionally make an effort to engage with her youngest daughter, but Michelle looked up at her plain, round face and its nondescript features with a lack of gratitude and a lack of respect. This woman floated with the wind. Michelle grew less patient with it as she came to understand it.
Placing the atlas back onto the shelf, she walked along the line of books and ran her finger across their spines. She absorbed every difference, each texture, until she reached the end of them. She tapped the final book and pulled it out. It was the dictionary, and she winced at this realisation. She pushed Dr Johnson’s baby back into its position, and turned away from the books. A dictionary is just words, and just words is boring.
Michelle returned to her computer as the elderly librarian made an announcement that the place would be closing in fifteen minutes. The last of the vagrants began to saunter over to the door, his face passive, his body tense. Michelle sensed that he was preparing himself physically and mentally for the cold night ahead. She looked back at her screen, and the blank page bore a hole right through her. The homeless didn’t know that they were born: they’d never had to deal with this.
She was tired. Her eyelids were heavy and it became a great burden to keep them lifted. She lamented using a lighter instead of match sticks. You can’t use a lighter to prop your eyes open. Instead, she would simply have to use her will to overpower the oncoming threat of sleep. Every night was like this. It wasn’t as if she had anything in particular to stay awake for. Her evenings had mostly become variations upon a similar theme, and it was regrettable that the finite manners in which she could fill her time (waste her time) were now tiresome through repetition. But still, stay awake she must, if only because of the anxiety that plagued her when each evening rolled around. Her somniphobia flared up with proximity to the night. It hadn’t always been like this. She remembered, during her first run on this side of the Atlantic, she had been referred to as ‘Dreamer’ almost as frequently as people used her birth name. She couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment that this fear descended upon her. It was sometime around her sister’s passing, only a pair of years ago. She thought it selfish of Isobel to cause her such strife, even in death.
The fear was not born out of anything particularly rational. She wasn’t worried about home invasions or fires, or the usual sorts of things that might cross a person's mind when they close their eyes and go to sleep. Nor were her fears particularly inward facing. Well, she was obviously still terrified of brain aneurysms and heart attacks and all the rest, but these fears were not more prevalent in the evening than they were in the morning. Instead, as the day grew older, she increasingly began to fear the things over which she had zero control and which threatened more than just her person. She had vivid images of asteroids destroying her city in the night, and as a result refused to sleep in case she was powerless to resist them. Even this was ridiculous: what would she hope to do if she were awake? Would she be the one to save humanity from the jaws of an oncoming black hole? Of course she fucking wouldn’t. On the day the vacuum decays she will be as helpless and as useless as everyone else, but she insisted on being awake to see it.
It had been the same on the bus between Edmonton and Toronto. She had left the letter for Gerald at the Meterra Hotel and turned her back on the city as quickly as she could. The shame there was unmanageable. The bus was long and dull, but not quite as cramped or desparate as the Greyhounds found the south. In fact, if she was a person capable of sleep, it would probably have been quite an enjoyable place to partake in the activity. But, as we have just established, that is not the sort of person that we are talking about. She had sat in her seat and stared out of her window and watched on as the world went by, contemplating the events in the bus station back in Edmonton.
She had, for more than just a minute, considered whether or not she even wanted to go to Toronto. She felt the buzz of life more acutely after recent events, and her finger hovered over the reset button. She read the names of the destinations on the board in the terminal: Chicago, Detroit, Toronto, Quebec, Montreal. Several more that hadn’t the appeal or the relative geographical proximity of those five. She read each one in turn, imagining what life would be like if she were to relocate to Detroit and find a job in an automobile factory. She was fully aware that they had all closed, but this was her fantasy, and if she wanted to work in an automobile factory then who the fuck are you to tell her that she can’t? She pictured herself working with her hands, the rote nature of it seeming comfortable and therapeutic. Of course, she had no real idea how an automobile factory worked, and so her projection of this alternate reality was informed almost entirely by the films Metropolis and Modern Times. More Lang than Chaplin, naturally.
But fantasies were futile, and eventually she gathered her courage and attempted to buy a ticket to Toronto. The fat woman behind the counter told her that the bus was full, and so she had to settle for the one in eight hours time. She sat in a corner of the terminal, watching as the bus she wanted to catch grew fuller and fuller by the minute. Eventually, when the vehicle was perhaps ninety per cent full, the doors closed and the engine started. Feeling the anger centralise in the pit of her stomach and beginning to roar up through her chest, she approached the desk again and let it fall out of her mouth in the form of a vitriolic diatribe. The fat woman simply blinked at her, and told her that she couldn’t ride this bus because she didn’t have a ticket. Unsure if this was the same fat woman she spoke to earlier, Michelle did her best to hurriedly explain the situation, but as she reached the climax of the tale she was forced to watch on forlornly as the bus left the depo.
She demanded to see the manager. The first fat woman appeared and sat next to the second one, and - in a slow and rather unlettered fashion - explained that the manager was currently unavailable. Michelle felt lost. The two women who had directly wronged her were in front of her, waiting for her verbal evisceration… but the puppeteer was still hidden away.
She had a familiar feeling of uselessness… of ignorance… and, of course, of rage.
But this rage was flailing and impotent, directed in every direction but the correct one. She stood, her mouth ajar, looking at the two fat women in front of her. The first of them, the prototypical terminal attendant, looked over at her protege, and then back at Michelle. The younger woman knew that anything she said would be a waste of words.
The culprit always remains hidden. The victim is always stranded in plain sight.
She turned away, and impatiently waited for eight hours for the next one.
Back in the library, the attendant made her final call. Her time had ran out. She sighed, and took one last look at the cursor. It stood victoriously in the middle of the blank battlefield, standing its ground, and smiling at her shame. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 10:14:33 GMT
Promo history - volume 47.
"物 の 哀 れ" (w/ Ryan Rondo).
Open Promo.
i. Act One: "Before and After" (+ Prologue: "The Blizzard") (January 17th, 2021).
January 1st, 2021.
対馬 長崎 日本
TSUSHIMA. Nagasaki, Japan.
The morning was crisp and cold. Snow lay on the ground and within the branches of the cherry blossom that lined the path in front of her. Beyond that was the forest and the mountain, if either could really be considered grand enough to earn those names. The forest was a small but dense web of evergreens, white powder layered amongst the tall, narrow trees. The mountain was probably little more than a hill, but was striking if only for its solitude and its ubiquity upon the horizon. When your eyes first caught it, there was no cherry blossom, no evergreens, no snow. No forest or sky. No looming shadow beyond the sea. There was only the mountain.
In front of this picture, a woman lay in a pool of hot springs, her eyes closed, most of her head and body submerged beneath the water, and therefore out of sight. Up until today, she had felt as alone on this island as the mountain. The passage north hadn’t exactly been arduous, and she’d been swept up by the ecology and the geography and, most of all, the culture. By chasing this wild goal, she was putting more and more kilometres between her and the shadow. And over the days it had taken for her to travel to the forest and the mountain, the sense that she was truly alone had been building. Simmering. It had been days since she'd seen another human being, a path chosen through the wild in order to avoid the various fishing villages along the coast giving her this unique sense of isolation. Part of her believed that the world could be forgotten, but the shadow loomed, and her solitude felt fragile.
And then it had been pierced by an odd sensation that seemed to stir up somewhere in the pit of her stomach. Her sanctuary had been breached. Somebody was watching.
She gently raised her head and her shoulders up above the level of the water and placed her arms out either side of her, evidence of recent bruising on display across the top of her back. Her clothes - black and plain and simple - were placed upon the rocks at the edge of the pool, along with a wooden bokken and a battered rucksack. As she beheld the winter vista, a voiceover verbalised her thoughts.
This particular search was almost over, and it had been successful in its design. Her melodramas, for once, were objectively large enough to complain about, and yet she had taken very little time in placing as much space between her and them - an entire ocean in fact - as she could. She knew what day it was. The morning sun was heralding the new year, and across the Pacific the marionettes would all be waking from their slumber, their strings stirring into life under the control of an unseen puppeteer. Today was the day of their big show. An old banner would be rolled out, and faces from a distasteful and unwelcome past would remind us that they aren’t quite yet dead.
And her white whale would tell a story. But this would wait.
She remembered the kaiju’s passive words, seemingly re-delivered to her upon the wind: ”Even now, when a worthwhile opponent demands you challenge him, demands you regain honour, you turn away and come to my door. And still you look onwards, to Tsushima, and to your familiar stranger.”
Now she was here, the thick snow of winter laying on the ground and more beginning to fall. Above her, the sky started to rumble, and as she slowly stood up in the shallow pool our camera tracks upwards, protecting her modesty and revealing a black-and-blackening sky. It seemed to crack open in order to expel a bolt of lightening. She didn’t know if it was a blizzard, or simply the Gods posturing, and as the first snowflakes settled upon her naked skin the cold settled into her bones.
Somewhere, an unwanted gaze continued to unsettle her.
She took a deep breath and stepped out of the pool. Her bare feet made soft imprints in the snow, quickly filled in by fresh powder from the oncoming storm.
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- SIX DAYS EARLIER -
December 25th, 2021.
富士山 静岡 日本
MOUNT FUJI. Shizuoka, Japan.
The silence was, as the old saying goes, golden. When she first came here, she had been plagued by the whistling of the wind or the whinnying of animals or even the soft padding of snowflakes upon the ground, but over time she had trained her mind to overlook these inconvenient details. She wasn’t quite in a meditative pose, but it was probably about as close an approximation of one as you could hope for from the young, Dutch woman. She had the back of her head against a large boulder and her legs stretched out across the path that ran in front of her. Her left hand rested upon her knee, whilst the fingers of her right played with the almost-empty packet of cigarettes that she’d hidden upon her mountainous retreat towards the start of her visit to Japan. The kaiju hadn’t banned her from smoking outright, but she found his passively disapproving looks a little too much to bear.
To the Americans, he was now known more often and more colloquially as Inhuman, but to her he would always be the kaiju. That is how he had been introduced when they’d first met all those years ago. You know the story (I assume): he was the recently crowned CWA World Champion in his first reign, she was the surprise upstart winner of the year’s Wrestle Royal. They had met beneath the bright lights at Five-Star Attraction, and nobody had given her much of a hope. She had fought valiantly, and surprised a few people in the process, but in the end he’d dropped her with a Hailstorm and the referee counted to three. That had been the start of it: both of her career in the professional leagues and her reputation as a choke artist.
That was, after all, why she had spent most of the last week traversing the Pacific Ocean on a cruise liner. But we’ll get to that.
Today was her last day at the dojo, and far below her she could see the man and the woman making preparations for her departure. They were stood in the courtyard, saying very little but watching closely as a series of young men dressed in black swept the snow from the stone. One of these young lions - men that the kaiju had agreed to eventually train, only after they had been put to work in the completion of menial tasks - brought her meagre belongings out and set them down by the gate. She recognised the young man as Hiroshi, who she had taken a liking to if only for his penchant for long silences and inward reflection. She couldn’t make out his facial expression, but his slumped shoulders and bowed head suggested some sadness for her impending goodbye. As he walked back into the dojo, Snowmantashi watched him silently and judgmentally.
“Are you ready?” the kaiju had asked her on the day she arrived. It had been less than a week ago, but in all honesty it felt like another lifetime. The same group of young men had been sweeping a different batch of snow from the courtyard, the autumn decay having already taken place and left the branches bereft of their leaves. That morning, six days ago, she looked about herself: at the servants and at the snow and at the sturdy, angular building before her that would be her home for the next few days. Since he had offered his training, back in the Summer at the CWA reunion show, she had known that this was her eventual destination, and that she would again walk beneath his shadow before the year was out.
And here she was, though the place’s status as her 'eventual destination' had been placed in jeopardy by her meeting with the handsome man. He can teach you to climb mountains, he had said of Snowmantashi, but not the mountain that you want to climb. Those words still rang in her ears, and another shadow of a figure took form in her mind. Snowmantashi was here and he was now, but her mind looked ahead to Tsushima.
On the morning of her arrival, she had stared up at Snowmantashi, and placed her rucksack down at her side. She was ready.
The kaiju simply nodded in return, but in the direction of an empty seat across the table from him. After she had taken it, a woman appeared from the dojo: neither young nor old, almost timeless. She conducted herself with poise and grace, dressed in a blue kimono with a gold floral print, and walked towards them with perfect posture. Her back was straightened in order to balance across her shoulders a long wooden pole. On either end of the traditional bokken was a white china tea cup, threaded onto the pole through its handle, and then a little closer to her body hung two small teapots.
As she came closer, Michelle observed the pagodas that had been painted onto the teapots in red and green and blue. The woman circled their table and then came to rest in a looming position, and with impressive dexterity and balance she lifted herself onto one foot and tilted her pole slightly towards Michelle. The teacup slid from its position and onto the table, landing without a sound in front of the Dutch woman. Next, the woman in the kimono rotated the pole a few degrees so that the spout of the pot was above the cup and poured out a measure of light green tea. When the cup was full, she allowed the pot to slide down the pole and land on the table in front of her. She changed foot and repeated the process with the other cup and pot, this time for Snowmantashi, and when she was finished she smiled at the kaiju, the wooden pole still rested across the back of her shoulders.
When Snowmantashi nodded in approval, she slowly turned to Michelle, and with a deft movement of both hands she gave her a quick but firm strike to the back of the head with her bokken.
The Dutch woman fell from her chair and sprawled out over the concrete courtyard. Her ears rang and a procession of cartoon birds flew around her head, and with great difficulty she rolled herself onto her backside. The woman in the kimono paced around the courtyard with her bokken in her left hand, eventually retrieving a second such object from a rack. Michelle climbed to her feet, thinking she’d have to defend herself from two weapons now instead of one, but to her surprise the woman in the kimono simply threw the bokken across the courtyard in her opponent’s direction.
Catching the pole was the last impressive feat Michelle managed to accomplish that morning (or, in actuality, the proceeding three days). The ensuing battle was short and painful. At first, Michelle lunged in with all the guile of a bull in a china shop, and the other woman simply sidestepped, causing her to lose balance. Without a word, the woman in the kimono lashed out at her legs, and then brought her weapon crashing down over Michelle’s back. In an instant, the European was again on the ground. She managed to rise once more, and this time employed a change in tact, waiting for her opponent to attack first. The woman in the kimono smiled, and then feigned a strike towards Michelle’s left leg. Instinctively, she tried to block it, but like a bolt of lightning the woman shifted and spun, bringing the pole down over the Dutch woman’s right shoulder. She was down on one knee, and a second direct hit across her torso had her looking up at the morning’s sky for a third time.
After a few deep breaths, she sat up. The nameless woman bowed, and then went back into the dojo.
Almost immediately, she was replaced in the picture by Snowmantashi. He didn’t offer Michelle a helping hand, and so she elected to remain seated.
“Generally speaking,” she said, taking a cigarette out of her pocket and lighting it. Her bokken was discarded a few metres from her. “Weapons aren’t allowed inside a wrestling ring. I mean, there are exceptions, but...”
She expelled a thick column of smoke, but the recent exertion had constricted her lungs and she had to choke down a cough. Snowmantashi looked at the cigarette with distaste.
“You haven’t come here to learn how to wrestle,” he said. “You’re here to learn how to win.”
After she had settled into her room - and it literally was a room, with a thin, pitiful mattress on the floor in one corner - she was summoned out into the courtyard again. She had barely the time to comprehend the inner workings of the dojo, or estimate how many people were ’training’ (or engaged in menial labour under training’s guise) there. The place seemed to be one large central complex that housed a wrestling ring and a spit and sawdust gymnasium, with a couple dozen small rooms emerging from it as dwellings. Snowmantashi’s own quarters, she would eventually come to learn, were set apart from the main structure by a short corridor and a staircase. She would never observe the room herself, but was led to believe that it was only slightly less meagre and unassuming as the ones he handed out to the trainees.
Most of her time there would not be spent inside the dojo, anyway. Much of the business was to be conducted in the courtyard in front of it, on the hard concrete floor that would soon be responsible for the patchwork of bruises and aches that riddled her torso. On that first day, having been summoned by the kaiju less than twenty minutes after her total and humiliating defeat, she walked across the stones and noticed that the two wooden poles had been neatly stored away with a dozen others at one end of the courtyard. At the other was a large fountain that took in water from a nearby stream. Snowmantashi stood next to it, filling a large pail from the fast-flowing waterway. He placed it down next to another identical one before awaiting Michelle’s arrival.
“You called?” she said, coming to rest a couple of metres in front of him and looking down at the pails. They were both full to the brim. “Are we starting now?”
“We’ve already started, Michelle,” he said, impatient and - she thought - rather obtuse. He took his eyes away from her, as if bored by her impetuousness, and allowed them to drift upwards towards the top of the mountain. She followed his gaze and realised that he was staring at another structure a few hundred metres above them. It wasn’t particularly high, and in truth was still in the foothills of the mountain. But the snows quickly worsened and deepened as you got higher, and she imagined the climb to be both arduous and treacherous.
“Who lives there?” she asked, overwhelmed by her curiosity.
“An old man,” the kaiju answered. It was the only explanation that he was willing to give. “It is going to be a long winter, and he will not come down to the dojo or to the city again before Spring. The stream is frozen up there. You will take this man his water each day. Two pails from this fountain.”
Without further instruction he left her, and went inside the dojo to train his boys.
Michelle took out a cigarette and contemplated the task. For the first half of the smoke her mind was verging on walking back down the mountain and to the village. But she had, of course, already come this far, and she wanted to ask the kaiju for his advice on Tsushima. When she resolved to stay, she perched her cigarette between her lips and retrieved one of the poles from the rack at the opposite end of the courtyard, proceeding to thread it through the large handles on top of the pails. She crouched down beneath it and, as if squatting the water weight, hoisted it up onto her shoulders. She looked at the containers either side of her, the water precariously and delicately balanced on either end of the pole.
“Not bad,” she said.
When she took a step forward, the pail on her left skidded off the edge of the bokken, and the sudden shift in weight distribution took the right one off with it. Water cascaded across the courtyard and disappeared down the cracks between slabs. She looked at the disaster zone, and then up at the dojo. Nobody was watching her. She busied herself in refilling the pails from the fountain, and then attempted to lift them up in either hand. The farmer’s walk was made even more complicated by the wide diameter of the bowls. She had to keep her hands up at her sides as if midway through a lateral raise, and after a few steps she found she had not the strength to even reach the start of the snow in this manner. When she got to the powdery stuff, she had no choice but to set one of the pails down and come back for it later.
The walk on that first day - and indeed the five walks on the five days that followed - gave her mind the chance to drift back across the Pacific and to the problems she had left behind. Of course, the chief of them was her dealings with Mike Parr, and - at the mere thought of that name - she reprimanded herself for her frequent and long-standing stupidity. When she had seen him standing in the ring with the lead pipe in his hand, a devious smirk on his face akin to the one he’d enjoyed when offering her his hand after the second tag match, the realisation dawned on her with all the force of a wrecking ball. Suddenly, she remembered so many little details that pointed towards the man in front of her, holding his weapon of choice. At the moment it had made impact, she was transformed back to the night that Parr found her in the back and set her on Ty Jordan. Her rage was all-encompassing but inevitably impotent. She didn’t even remember the rest of the attack. She watched it back a day later, fuming at herself and at Parr, and at the goons that stood either side of him.
The Blackbird told her that he wasn’t booking her for either of the vacation shows, and she’d stared at him with a dumbfounded, almost-flabbergasted countenance. She blinked slowly. Twice. He explained to her that not only had she competed on every show the company had had this year (save the one during which her attack had taken place), she’d also wrestled in the most brutal of FWA’s divisions, had a million tag team matches as part of the lengthy tournament, and appeared for other promotions here and there too. It was time for a week off. At first, she had refused, and the Blackbird elaborated: ”you have spent the last few months terrorising this roster and myself, hunting for someone who was right under your nose. You can’t see the forest through the trees. You are having this time off.”
Eventually, Japan seemed the right choice, but a literal ocean could not stop the Ghost of Mike Parr sailing forth to meet her. As she trudged through the ever-deepening snow of the foothills, she inwardly remarked upon the inevitability that they would soon meet in the ring. First would come the verbal confrontation. Michelle would already have to concede that. How could she maintain any semblance of intellectual superiority over this man when he had continued to go about his business, challenging for world championships no less, whilst she flailed about in search of him? She flat out could not do this. She would have to choke back her shame and her rage and listen to his reasons, though to her they already seemed obvious. Parr had been languishing for years. She was aware of him from her first stint in America, and in the years that had followed he hadn’t really seemed to progress at all.
She had landed in the company like a comet. She had stuttered and stumbled in the second half of the year, partially due to her prolonged involvement in the tag team tournament, but also thanks to her long and thankless manhunt. A riddle that was eventually solved for her. He had kept her distracted and busy, whilst he went on a hunt of his own. It was only his arrogance and Garcia’s goon-squad that stopped him from leaving Mile High as the FWA World Champion. She was thankful for this, at least. The thought that she was grateful for a Michael Garcia championship reign made her feel unwashed.
Her staged victory over the New Breed last week was nothing in the face of the three spectacular defeats she had experienced over the past month. There was Parr himself: for although no bell was rung, his actions to close Fight Night were undoubtedly a professional and personal defeat. And, of course, there was both Bell Connelly and Golden Rock. The old voices, the ones that had chased her around North America during her time with CWA, had begun to whisper again. That was, in truth, why she was here in Japan, placing the first pail of water down next to the structure and descending the hill to collect the second. It had all started with Five-Star Attraction and Jon Snowmantashi. That was her first taste of defeat on those shores, and it had come on the biggest stage of them all. The same had happened a few months later in the Steel Roulette match, where the kaiju had again seen to her demise. Michelle von Horrowitz: nearly-ran, bridesmaid, choke artist. This talk, this ever-increasing and ever-encroaching under-torrent of derision, had followed at her back when she’d fled the first time. And now, it was back.
Jon Snowmantashi. Bell Connelly. Mike Parr. There were only three people who could proudly claim to have pinned Michelle von Horrowitz, from sea to shining sea. That may seem an impressive feat, but when you scratch the surface you begin to ask: who else was there? Some minor league feuds against tokenistic opponents. Thrown together tag matches. The occasional battle royale or triple threat triumph. Nothing of real note or significance. The three names on that list - Snowmantashi, Connelly, and Parr - were the only opponents of note amongst her thirty nine matches on American soil. And she had lost to each of them. The taste of defeat to Connelly still stuck in her throat, and the moment her hubris caused her own (and poor Gerald’s) defeat to Mike Parr and Krash was growing in importance by the day.
And Snowmantashi was Snowmantashi: inevitable, forever, indomitable. The kaiju. Looking back at their singles match and the multi-man within the cage, she had not truly recognised the significance of those defeats. At the time, she’d seen them as blemishes to eventually be corrected. But now they were ominous and foreboding, and revealed a simple truth: the kaiju had broken her. He had broken her spirit and her mind, and in truth that was why she had come here. She needed to be fixed. She was tired of meandering in the foothills. The mountains were waiting to be conquered.
He can teach you to climb mountains, the handsome man had said, but not the mountain that you want to climb. She heard the words upon the wind on that first day at the dojo, once again battling through the snow with her second and final pail of water.
As she reached the structure for the second time, she placed the pail down and stared out southwards. She could see the sea, and although the Island of Tsushima lay on the other side of Japan she still felt a connection with the man that she had come here to eventually find. She wondered if he stared out across the ocean, towards China or America or right here, and felt her presence like she did his… If he knew that his old friend, the handsome man, had set her upon this hunt... Yet, she could not be sure he even knew she existed, or if her arrival at his door would merely be viewed as an inconvenience. But still, she had to go. She had already come this far.
Just then, as she observed the structure to which she'd twice climbed and took a cigarette out of her packet, she noticed that an old man was sitting in his garden on a raised and cushioned ledge above the snow. He was meditating, his eyes open but unseeing as he breathed in the world. He was oblivious to her toil, and so she left him with his morning thoughts.
The remainder of her first evening, as well as the entirety of her second day, was marked only by their monotony and refusal to stray even a milimetre from pattern. The second morning, she again made two trips to take the old man his water, collecting the empty pails from where she had left the full ones twenty four hours before. And, back at the dojo, she was routinely picked apart by the woman and her wooden pole. By the end of the second day, bruises were beginning to show on her biceps, shoulders, and neck, as well as a long, purple swelling beneath her left arm. Her legs ached from the walking and her torso ached from the beating, and the regular helpings of vegetables, noodles, or rice - along with the lack of nicotine - did nothing to satisfy her.
On the second night, she tossed and turned on her uncomfortable bedding, struggling to find a position that didn’t aggravate one of her many bruises. Eventually, she gave up all hope of sleep, and instead propped herself up against the wall and stared out of the window. She fished an unopened box of Camels out of her rucksack and carefully blew the smoke out of the opening, allowing herself to drift into the future, and to the journey she had in front of her. She drifted across the South China Sea on a sail-boat, swam ashore on the island, and walked under the still-flowering trees of the north. She closed her eyes and pictured the confrontation: the silhouette of a man emerging from a palace atop a snow-capped mountain. She stood, her bokken in hand, and awaited his arrival, slowly seeing his features come into contrast upon the horizon. When she opened her eyes, she realised her cigarette had gone out, and that she was sucking on the filter.
She lit another one, and moved away from the future and into the past. It had only been about a week since she’d sat in a bar in Toronto and met the handsome man. It was the day after she’d met Parr’s pipe for the second time, and a couple of hours removed from an uncomfortable conversation with the Blackbird involving enforced vacation. She was nursing a beer, not really in the mood for drinking, when he had emerged through the doors. It would seem another unlikely coincidence, but she was sat at the same bar where she had ran into two of her colleagues, the handsome man included, a few nights before the last show. It was a good bar: quiet, scummy, and quiet (listed twice because of its importance). It made sense that the handsome man would return here to celebrate his victory. Or commiserate his loss. Or whatever he did on the Toronto show.
”He can teach you to climb mountains, but not the mountain that you want to climb.”
She drifted to sleep thinking of these words, and of the man who waited for her on Tsushima.
The third day was different only from the first and the second in that she was able to carry both pails of water most of the way up the foothills, her arms stretched out either side of her and sweat dripping from her pores in spite of the low temperature. She had to place one of them down when she reached the steep steps that led to the house, but upon inspection of her progress she felt comfortable in affording herself some pride. She proceeded to make two trips up the stairs to deliver the pails, nodded at the old man - still in deep meditation - who offered nothing in return, and then found her perch to partake in a cigarette. Due to the time saved, she allowed herself two, and stomped down the hillside attempting to expel the chesty cough that persisted.
In the courtyard, though, her fortunes did not improve. On this day the woman in the kimono (a deep purple number with silver flowers) paid more attention to her thighs and her calves. The woman was quite aware that they were sore from the relentless climbs up and down the foothills, and took great delight in thrashing the end of her pole against Michelle’s thighs when her guard was high or non-existent. The kaiju watched on passively and ate a bowl of vegetables and rice. At the end of the day, the woman in the kimono once more knocked Michelle’s bokken loose from her hands and continued to rain down blows onto her shoulders. The European relented, lifting her hands to try and guard her head, but her opponent shifted focus and swept her legs from beneath her. Michelle struggled, and it took her perhaps a full minute to roll onto her front and lift her head. When she did, she realised the woman in the kimono had already placed both bokkens into the rack and disappeared - along with the kaiju - into the building.
That night, when everyone but herself and Hiroshi had retreated into their quarters, she summoned him out into the courtyard and forced him to practise. She gave him one of the bokken and took another for herself, focusing her mind to overcome the network of pains and aches that smothered her torso and now her legs. She bade her opponent onwards, and found that with the young man she was able to telegraph more of his attacks. He was slower, less sudden and swift, and altogether more indecisive in his actions. But the step down in challenge allowed her to hone her own skills, not only in defence but also in attack. After several hours of practice, she struck Hiroshi on his left wrist and sent his bokken down to the concrete, and with a deft flick knocked it away from him. When she lifted her own pole above her head, he swiftly yielded, and she stood down. They smoked a cigarette together at the kaiju’s table before getting a handful of hours sleep.
The sun rose early on the fourth day, and so did the dojo. After an hour of schooling from the woman in the kimono, Michelle took the pails of water up to the top of the hill, managing the whole way with a pail in each hand. When she completed her descent she found a steady stream of trainees walking across the courtyard and towards the road to the city.
“Where’s everyone going?” she asked, watching as a trio of young men from the north stomped down the steps together.
“It’s Wednesday afternoon,” one of them answered, turning back to face her but not breaking stride. “Recreation. We’re going to the town.”
She watched them file out and finally had the opportunity to count them, managing to get as far as twenty six before Hiroshi appeared, his rucksack in his hand and a smile on his face.
“Don’t you want to train?” she asked.
“Don’t you want to drink?” he replied.
She shook her head. She had a bottle of Jameson’s in her bag that she’d take a few pulls from each night when the rest of the trainees were in slumber, and struck up a deal to hand some off to Hiroshi if he stayed behind to train. They took up position in the courtyard, and the kaiju remained behind for half an hour whilst they played with their wooden swords. Michelle was better than Hiroshi, but he had been training longer, and every now and then he was able to take advantage of some naivety in her approach. They found themselves on their backs roughly as often as each other, and they continued to clash weapons until long after the dojo’s master had retreated inside. They did not see the woman in the kimono that day, but around six hours later, when they were sharing a cigarette and a glass of amber atop her mountainous perch and discussing her plans, they watched on as the twenty six recruits filed back into the dojo, the last of them arriving after midnight and trying to sneak a girl in through the back gate.
On the day that followed, her training - if it could really be called that - was beginning to show signs of progress. In the morning, for the first time in the five days since she’d arrived, she managed to parry one of the woman’s heavier blows before returning with one of her own. This happened no less than three times, and although her attacks were glancing and ineffectual the momentary upsetting of the balance was felt by both parties. On each occasion, the woman in the kimono would reply with a torrent of heavy strikes, and despite her best efforts Michelle would be overwhelmed and knocked onto the concrete. After the session was finished and the woman in the kimono returned her weapon to the rack, she and Snowmantashi left the courtyard. Moments later, an older man appeared with a broom and two pails. He placed the containers next to the fountain in silent instruction, and began to sweep the courtyard. The European sighed heavily, and then began to fill them.
She decided to keep her pole in her hand and, after threading it through the handles of the containers, squatted beneath it to hoist the bokken up across the back of her shoulders. With great care, she began to walk forwards, and found that once you got yourself into a rhythm it was not impossible to balance the water in such a manner. It got tougher the higher you got, as the snows deepened and the hillside steepened, but it was still vastly preferable to the slog she faced each day with the pails in her hands. When the routine of the walk took over and her mind was not so preoccupied with the balancing act, she began to ponder how long she should stay here.
Again, the handsome man’s words rang in her ears: he can teach you to climb mountains, but not the mountain that you want to climb. The oncoming confrontation loomed ominously in her mind, and threatened to overcome her desire to stay and see out the kaiju’s game. She had always been a curious creature, and his words had spoken to her heart. She had felt depleted when she had got here, and in truth she still felt so now. The victories of the past seemed firmly and resolutely of the past, and all that was left was a faded memory of them, deeply unsatisfying but the best she could conjure. The battle with Parr, a battle still to begin but already raging within her, seemed even now lost. Futile. Like the waves crashing down onto the rocks, she would rage and storm but, ultimately, her efforts would come short of any instant effect: of the validation that she craved. Same as it ever was.
One meeting with one faded legend - one star in the sky that had already burnt out into nothing all those light-years away - could not fix the holes in her mind and her soul. Neither could the bottle. Nor mindless walks up the foothills of Japanese mountains, or constant defeats to a passive-aggressive woman in a kimono. This she knew. But what good would she be doing across the Pacific? She would be watching on as Mike Parr rubbed her nose in the embarrassment of her ignorance, or as Mike Garcia and Dave Sullivan played hot potato with an increasingly weakening currency that was now further from her grasp than ever. And each night she would drink or smoke or sniff the memories away, dulling the pain of recent loss until she blacked out and woke up in an unknown apartment with an unknown accomplice. Her exploits in Japan, she felt, would help more than that could. Even if the faded legend looked at her without recognition, and turned his back on her requests, the time to contemplate where she had been and where she would go next had been appreciated. The city was draining and uncompromising, and she found herself unwilling or unable (or both) to live beneath its weight for too long. She paused for a moment, her pails balanced either side of her on her wooden pole, and took in the remarkable landscape that stretched out before her. She began a deep, hopeful breath, but the slight adjustment in position caused the ever-bowing pole to snap, and the pails of water began to roll down the hill. She watched them tumble until they were halted by patches of snow, and completed her deep breath as a sigh.
After delivering the water by hand, she returned to the dojo too late for lunch. Snowmantashi sat in his usual spot with his bowl, and the woman in the kimono waited for her with a bokken in each hand. She threw one of them to Michelle and, just like she had on the first day, the European caught it and immediately lunged at her opponent. This time, though, four days later, her ferocity was matched by agility and skill, and the woman in the kimono had to suppress a momentary flash of panic in her countenance. She managed to block the first three strokes, but took a fourth to the side, causing her to flinch and recoil. Michelle was on her again, and her opponent just barely blocked an overhead swing, and then out of desperation thrust all of her weight into the European. Michelle was knocked off balance, and her opponent lashed out at her thighs and her torso. She threw up a hasty guard, and then swiped at her wildly to cause some separation.
The kaiju set his food aside and was watching intently, the two women circling widely in the courtyard. Michelle paused, beckoning the woman in the kimono onwards, and she dutifully obliged. After a nod, she feigned a strike towards Michelle’s left thigh. The European bought it, throwing her own pole in that direction for a parry, but her opponent threw herself off the ground, spun through the air, and brought her bokken crashing down on the back of Michelle’s head. She followed up by sweeping Michelle’s leg from beneath her, and the European fought hard to keep her balance on the one that remained. The woman in the kimono swiped at her remaining foot, but Michelle leapt the blow, and as she returned to the ground she noticed her opponent’s wrist extended and prone. The European lifted her bokken at full pace into the joint, knocking the weapon from her grasp. The woman in the kimono attempted impotently to block the oncoming rage, but soon enough she was off balance and falling backwards, and Michelle swept her legs from beneath her. She crashed down onto the concrete, her bokken metres away from her.
Michelle paused, her pole still in her hand but lowered, and in the corner of her eye she noticed that Snowmantashi had risen. He slowly descended the steps and walked across the courtyard, never once removing his eyes from the standing combatant, until he stood next to her. He reached out and took the bokken from her hand, before turning away from her to retrieve her opponent’s. He placed Michelle’s into the rack, and then handed the other to the woman in the kimono. As she got to her feet and stepped away from Michelle, the kaiju returned to his bowl of rice, and continued to eat.
In front of her, the woman in the kimono lifted her weapon and returned to her favoured stance. Michelle felt naked without a bokken of her own, and glanced over towards the store of them longingly. The distraction was all her opponent needed, and she was on her in a flash, bringing the pole down over her freely and without respite for the next twenty minutes. When the sun had descended and the oncoming night was beginning to loom, the woman in the kimono gave Michelle one more final battering before placing her own weapon in the store and disappearing into the dojo. The kaiju finished his rice, and then followed.
That night, the European had Hiroshi come to the courtyard and, after lighting a series of candles around its perimeter, gave him one of the bokken. She bade him onwards, and after some initial protests she was able to lure him into a fight. Even Hiroshi, for all his apparent lack of wit in the courtyard, was able to overcome her easily and often, and the patchwork of bruises was nurtured by his clumsy, heavy swordwork. Eventually, she had no energy left to withstand him, and was forced to yield.
On her sixth day, her final full day in the kaiju’s dojo, she involuntarily slept in and missed her morning session. It must have been past noon by the time she emerged into the courtyard, and there was no sign of Snowmantashi or the woman in the kimono. Her two pails were sat next to the fountain, and she filled them up before moving over to the rack of bokken. She collected three of them and placed them next to her pails, proceeding to return to the dojo and collect some wrist tape from the training area (that she had not once used since her arrival). She used the tape to bind them together, placing a bit more of it where her shoulders would likely go (for added comfort). She squatted beneath the pole with the pails tethered on by their handles and hoisted them into the air. She checked the integrity of the bar and found it pleasing, smiling to herself as she began her ascent.
The walk up the foothills that day was bright and breezy, and for once there had been no fresh snow. She followed her footsteps through the heavier stuff from previous days, emerging at the stairs beneath the old man’s house in less than an hour. With a smile on her face she completed the journey, placing the water down next to the empty pails. Michelle glanced over at the old man, who had just completed his morning meditations. For the first time since she had arrived at the dojo, he was moving. He stood up, and she was surprised to find that he was tall and strong. He stretched out and then turned to face her, a smile on his old, kindly face. After a few moments of recognition, he walked towards her, and when he stood only a metre away he reached into his pocket. He produced a cigarette and asked her for a light. She lit one of her own and then his. He thanked her before returning to his garden, collecting his cushion, and disappearing into the house.
When she returned to the courtyard, the woman in the kimono was waiting for her with her bokken in her hand, wearing the same blue-and-gold dress that she had done on the day of Michelle’s arrival. The European attempted to move over to the rack to collect a weapon of her own, but the path was blocked by a cautionary blow. It appeared the game had changed, and was now heavily imbalanced against her.
Her bruises screamed at her with each strike, and there were many of them. At first, Michelle tried to play it defensively, but the woman’s reach was so extended by the pole that evading her attacks was impossible if she wished to land any of her own. She had tried to lunge in at what she perceived were opportune moments, but each time she did so she was on the receiving end of a hard blow to the shoulders or ribs or to the back of the head. Twice she landed heavily on the floor and had to drag herself back up. Her breathing became haggard, movement difficult. But still, ever resolute, the woman came onwards, and the kaiju looked on dispassionately. With a flash of what Michelle thought to be both rage and pleasure, the woman in the kimono came at her again, throwing her bokken against the European’s wrists to knock back her guard, and then following up with a clubbing blow to the right shoulder. Michelle stumbled backwards, and her opponent lashed out at her legs, sending her onto the ground.
When she landed, she stretched out her hands, expecting to find concrete, but beneath the left one her fist tightened around soft, powdered soil. She opened her eyes and found herself on the edge of the courtyard, and the woman in the kimono was only a pair of metres away from her. Instinctively, Michelle threw the powdered soil into the woman’s eyes, and she was momentarily blinded, allowing the European to charge into her and take her over with a double leg take down. The pole flew across the courtyard and landed with a thud on the concrete. Michelle, not abated by her opponent’s grounding, wound up in a mounted position and landed two stiff forearms to the side of her face. She yielded, and Michelle finally relented, climbing to her feet and backing away. The kaiju was already gone. She followed him inside, but he had left no trace.
That night, she retreated to her perch high above the dojo, and watched out as the moon climbed towards its apex. She smoked a cigarette and remained in thought, contemplating the actions of her assailant, many kilometres away on a different side of the earth. He felt remote, and deliberately so, as if she had abstracted herself from the situation in order to ignore it. But ever it came onwards, battering the defenses she hastily threw up around her mind, impregnating her thought with all the vile guilt and shame that she’d come to associate with the sordid affair. She finished her cigarette and threw it away, watching it land in a nearby patch of snow. The filter disappeared beneath a heavy black boot, and she looked up to find the kaiju staring down at her.
His face was as passive as ever, as if the events of the world did nothing to disrupt the calm shores of his being. She had seen him in the other state, of course, but even then he had about him the persistent and inevitable dread found in a natural disaster, within which we are caught up and defenseless. She hadn’t seen him like that in quite a while. No one had. Today, as ever, he merely continued. He took a seat next to her, looking first at the sea for a long time, and in silence. Eventually, his eyes drifted to the city, and he began to speak.
”Why are you here?” he asked her. There was no unkindness in the question, but nor was there any curiosity. The question seemed almost rhetorical. Designed to make the trainee decide for herself, rather than to elicit a response.
”I came here to train,” she answered, taking the final cigarette out of her crumpled packet and placing it between her lips. The night was warm, but the air clogged in her airways. She lit the cigarette and stared off towards the moon.
”No,” the kaiju responded, his hands on his knees, back straight. He hadn’t engaged in eye contact since his arrival. ”I don’t think that is all.”
”You are as blind as the rest of them,” she responded, sucking at the cigarette and drawing the psychological cleanser through her body. ”I came here to train, and all I’ve done is walk up a hill and get beaten with a stick.”
There was an elongated silence. Snowmantashi felt no need to respond.
”Is this the same for all of your trainees?”
”No,” the kaiju answered, lazily. ”Most of them just trade holds in the wrestling ring.”
She blinked at him. But the more she thought it through, the more she understood.
They settled into an alternating question arrangement. Not by design.
”When do you leave for Tsushima?”
The blunt question, and her secret revealed, gave her pause. She should have expected it: the kaiju was renowned for cutting right to the point, and he was more perceptive than he looked. She continued to stare at the satellite, and Snowmantashi did the same. His eyes seemed tired.
”I will travel there tomorrow,” she answered, matter-of-factly. She cursed herself for revealing her plans to Hiroshi, the undoubted source of the leak.
She mulled over her next question carefully.
”Why did you have me deliver water to that old man?”
”Because the man needed water,” the kaiju responded
More silence.
”I am travelling to Hiroshima myself this week. Honshū Puroresu. I believe you know the outfit well. You fought there in another life. I have an appearance to make: my word to honour. I will leave tomorrow. We can travel west together. I will take you to Tsushima, if that is where you wish to go.”
The kaiju stood up, as if intending to make his exit. She was surprised and unsettled when he turned back to face her, his eyes resting upon hers for the first time in the conversation.
”I know who you search for on Tsushima. You will find him, no doubt, and he will receive you. But what you search for: this will prove more elusive. You have fights to fight back in America. Important ones, worthy of your time. You are here, I know, through some misguided concern about failures of the past. They are notable failures, yes. But the answer is right in front of you, and you choose not to see it.”
She didn’t answer, but she bade him continue with her eyes. The kaiju turned away from her and looked out upon the horizon. They could see the many lights of the city in the distance, and in the opposite direction a sea without end. Her choice was made clear by the opposing landscapes.
”When you lost to me for the first time, your words were lofty and hollow. You spoke of saving the CWA, whatever that meant. When you lost to me for the second time, you were hell bent on chasing McGinnis and his cronies from your playground, and your destiny as a saviour had not yet been forgotten. Do you understand?”
She shook her head.
”The same is true of your failures this year: you lack focus, Michelle. You are incapable of settling on one task. The future is always more important than the present. You are searching for something that you are never going to find.”
”I have heard this before,” she said, offended and impatient.
”You have heard it, but you have not listened,” the kaiju answered. There was no accusation there. He hardly seemed to care. He was merely stating perceived facts. ”Even now, when a worthwhile opponent demands you challenge him, demands you regain honour, you turn away and come to my door. And still you look onwards, to Tsushima, and to your familiar stranger.”
Michelle’s last cigarette had long gone out, and she let the filter fall to the path. She wanted bed, but decided to let the kaiju depart first, and alone. It would rob the dramatic tension if they were to make smalltalk on their descent of the foothills.
”We leave for the train at dawn tomorrow. It’s up to you which harbour you choose: Tokyo, and the long sail across the Pacific, or Hiroshima, and Tsushima beyond.” | .
ACT II
19.01.2021
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ii. Act Two: "Dreamless Wanderer" (January 20th, 2021).
December 25th, 2020.
アザモ湾 対馬 日本
AZAMO BAY. Tsushima, Japan.
THUD
He blinked.
THUD
He blinked again.
THUD
He blinked every single time. It was like clockwork as the same, jarring thudding sound continued in at the same mechanical rhythmic pattern. He had been staring, intently, at the group of fishermen with a morbid curiosity as they lopped off the heads of their catch. It was weird how they'd all do it in near perfect unison. The weathered but serviceable meat cleaver constantly smacking into the wood table as it sliced through the flesh. It was weird to see a bunch of grimy looking Japanese men discard what looked like glistened pieces of silver with small specks of blood decorating it. There was a stark contrast between the fish and their captors. Maybe it was just the way they looked but there was something near-sinister in the juxtaposition of the helpless expression on the decapitated fish compared to their glee-ridden butchers.
THUD
He snorted a little as he blinked this time. It was disgusting.
The group of fishermen seemed to enjoy the togetherness that the activity brought. It only served to add to the tinge of disgust he felt. Still, he respected what they were doing. A lot of people on the small Japanese island of Tsushima had come to rely on their fishing ports for food. They didn't look impressive and they didn't stand out but they had their place in this particular ecosystem. In a way, he had his too.
Eventually, the group of fishermen started speaking louder amongst themselves as usual. Their increase in volume was probably in correlation with them noticing him watching. Never mind that, he knew they had seen him watching. He stood out like a sore thumb... every single person here had dark eyes except him. You'd notice if a pair of deep blue eyes were trained on you. He wasn't in camouflage. It was fairly obvious and he knew that.
He couldn't make out what they were saying as he turned his head away and looked out at the Korea Strait. The water was near-grey in the distance with the sky only a shade lighter as the clouds filled out its canvas. His Japanese was poor and the Tsushima dialect probably further confounded the situation of understanding them. He kept an ear out as he put his hands on the railing infront of him and took a small breath. It wasn’t cold enough for him to see it in the air just yet but it would be soon.
He looked around at the surrounding area. The silence only disturbed by the sound of the water ahead, some birds chirping in the distance and the rowdy fishermen with their boombox voices. He had heard the word 'Gaijin' being said a few times. He wasn't sure if they deliberately said it slower so they knew he understood he was being spoken about.That was their name for him. The Foreigner. It wasn't meant to be a discriminatory term. He was the only foreigner here. It made him stand out more than his blue eyes did.
Some people were interested in him, knew his name and why he was there. Some people didn't care.
He cast a look, almost like bait, at the fishermen as they laughed amongst themselves and soldiered on with their grim task. He smirked to himself. They were blissful in the ignorance that he knew he could launch all of them into the water if he wanted to.There wasn’t any reason to fight though.
A sudden raindrop ran down his cheek and his attention turned back out onto the vast water before him. Again, he had a small look around. Tsushima was a small place and Azamo was effectively a horseshoe hill of lush forestry with a small part in the centre. The town had one way in and one way out. It being surrounded by hills made it a stunning sight in the correct conditions. Today, Christmas Day, it was grey and bleak. This place didn’t seem to care if Christmas existed and the weather just summed that up. The rain had been coming. The hills didn't have blooming flowers. It was dull.
He thought about some friends he had left on the mainland. No doubt, they would be gearing up for some fried chicken. A weird tradition people seemed to have here. There was a small thought of his actual ‘home’ crossing his mind. It probably wasn’t Christmas Day there yet but the thought of his home celebrating Christmas at least brought his mind some colorful happiness.
A group of lightning strikes in the far-off distance ripped away his concentration as the grey sky began to strobe with fierce illumination. A ferocious crash of Thunder follows soon after. A crescendo of noise accentuated by the bowl like shape of the town no doubt. He could certainly feel the wind start to pick up. The acceleration of the water on the shores ‘whooshing’ to and fro.The frequency began to increase. It was getting colder too. A storm or a blizzard surely lay in wait. A monsoon perhaps? Maybe it'd be a White Christmas on Tsushima after all.
He had experienced a myriad of trials and tribulations since coming to this small piece of land but he hadn't experienced this sort of weather here before. This wasn't a place that's going to offer you much protection from the elements never mind the secrets it contained. Home would have provided some form of comfort. What was coming wasn’t going to be comfortable or something he was going to enjoy. He was sure of that...
Ahh home. Home had crossed his mind a lot recently. Initially an invasive thought, it's now grown into something a bit more... complicated.
He watched a small flock of pigeons fly from a rock in the far off distance. Clearly, they were setting off for somewhere else. He wondered if the time had perhaps come for him to do the same. A new adventure? Home? A new adventure at home? His days here had started to feel long.
The routine he took in the morning was always the same. Go to Azamo. See the market. Hear the Fishermen. Look out towards the Korea Strait... or was it towards home? He doesn't know. But the question always comes back. He brushed it off for a second. It wasn't like that. It was the satisfaction it brought simply knowing he could do that if he wanted to. He didn’t need to. And home was just fine without him as well.
For the talk of his morning routine always being the same… this wasn’t the case today. He was here to see a friend off to the mainland. They were deciding to return home after a short stay. He knew there was a lingering question in the air of whether he would also embark on the trip...
Again, thunder and lightning broke his concentration. It was louder this time and shook him a little.
Home, if it was that, didn't really matter right now because a storm was certainly beginning to brew.
Shouting out from behind him was the voice of his departing friend, “Is it not a bit early to be doing the whole deep in thought thing at this time man?”
He was speaking with a slightly sarcastic manner but he had come to know him better than anybody around here.
He muttered back, “Yeah I... sorry. How long have you been standing there?”
They greeted each other properly for a brief second. His Asian friend had a large luggage case and rucksack on him. Despite his small height, he was stocky enough to hold his own balance against the heavy baggage on his back.
“You sure you’re not going to keel over?”
His friend dropped his rucksack for a moment.
“That enough for you, pussy?”
“Shut up, dick.”
“That how they say Merry Christmas where you’re from?”
“Merry Christmas. You desperate for that fried chicken?”
The pair had a laugh at each other but it slowly faded. He was leaving this place like he said he would. The smirk turned slight frown upon his face betrayed his thought process a little. His friend clearly noticed.
“I told you bro. I was only here in the short term and there was a new goal in sight for me.”
That was fair and he never held it against him or anything like that. There was nothing he could do. Maybe he was slightly envious.
“Nah. It's all good. It’s not my place to stop you. You have your family and home to get back to right? It’s Christmas. But shit, the weather isn't the best. You really going to go out in that?”
His friend smirked at him as he joined him at his side at the railing.
“What can I say? I like a challenge. I'll be fine. I’m happy with what I have achieved and nobody can take it from me. It’s the same for you too, you know. Why aren’t you turning around and going home.. ?”
His friend stopped speaking for a moment before perking back up – turning around to face away from the sea and towards him.
He cast him a slight blank stare.
“I take it that means you're settling on staying here rather than going back. Like you said you had sort of been thinking about from time to time. I'm surprised you haven't turned around and decided to catch a ride. You're not exactly the type to be afraid of anything.”
The last sentence was definitely a slight bit of banter.
He was right though. He wasn’t that sort of type. He wasn't afraid of going home or leaving this place. It's just that the feeling wasn't strong enough. There was something... missing. He had told his friend about the invading thoughts of going home. It had become a discussion point here and there. He was sort of the only person he could speak to about this sort of thing as he hadn't really kept contact well enough with anyone else he knew beyond close family. This island had provided solitude in many different forms – some comforting and some not so comforting. He wasn't sure which was which at times.
“You really think I was heading towards that line of thinking?” He wasn’t surprised that his friend expected him to perhaps ditch this place and return to his roots. He just didn’t see why it was the obvious thing to do. His friend seemed to have made that clear.
His friend picks his rucksack back up as a car horn toots near them. It's clear he doesn't have the time for a long chat. He would try to say as much as he could in the next few moments before they had to bid each other farewell.
“We've spoken about this before. You know my thoughts on it, brother. You've given me your thoughts too and,.well, you're a storm chaser and it seems like you might still have some sort of storm to chase. Only you can know what that is. Figure it out and do it and then you'll know true satisfaction. You said you managed to walk away successfully didn't you? There's no reason that you can't do it again. Finish whatever business that's on your mind and end it. This isn’t your home. We both know that. Every river flows into the sea, right?”
He cut a knowing nod and smile at him.
Every river flows into the sea. Was he making a point of loyalty? Was he trying to tell him that all paths seem to be leading somewhere? His friend had a weird way of expressing things.
“I'll find my own way, eventually, to wherever I'm going. Maybe something will come to me. I don't know. Maybe I’m just waiting for a sign right? I don’t know. I don’t even know if there’s a storm for me to chase anymore.”
He wasn't exactly sure of what he was trying to say.
“You've been on the outside looking in for a while. It's about time you figure out if you don't want it to be that way anymore. From the way it sounds to me, dude, is that you have unfinished business that requires you to get back in there. Only you can really decide when the time is right for that but don't leave it too late. There's no point being here with it gnawing at you. Maybe one day something will give you an answer. But don’t count on it if you aren’t looking for it.”
He looked at the ground for a minute. He wasn't so sure.
“What if it's not worth it?” He had accomplished just about everything he had to do in that life. There wasn't much incentive for him to go back. He didn’t see much upside to it at all.
His friend winked at him. “That's for you to decide, isn't it? Maybe you're still searching for the perfect answer. You'll get there eventually and you'll be off to the races. I get you. You're looking for a way to make it count. It's like you said. This isn't a path you, alone, have walked. There's been others before you and they've all found their way back. Maybe there'll be something more interesting that comes along and takes you away from the wacky shit you've done here. Fuckin’ floor spikes man? This place’s just some weeb’s imagination honestly.”
They laughed with each other. His friend was right. He had been doing some ridiculous stuff on this Island to keep entertained, in shape and generally to keep his brain stimulated. It was a bit out there for sure.
“Is that what's happened to you? Something more interesting come along than what Tsushima provides huh?” It was a cheeky question and he knew the answer. His friend smirked as the pair of them began to walk closer to the beginning of the pier. “You know fine well it's a new job.” He never really knew what his friend's job was. He didn't need to ask. It was none of his business.
“Secret Agent shit, right? Keep me in the loop.”
Another laugh.
“Keep in touch.”
“I will. I'll let you know if I find that reason too.”
“Just think about it, man. It’s probably already in your brain somewhere.”
His friend began to move away and waved goodbye to him. He waved back. He wasn't sad. They weren't close like that. They just had a mutual understanding between each other on a variety of things. Two similar people in a small part of the world. A chance meeting.
“I'll be keeping an eye out. It'll be hard to miss, I'm sure. I'll hit you up again when I'm on the mainland. Send you a picture of that chicken obviously. Take care.”
“Take care, brother.”
He turned around after watching his friend get into the small green car in the distance and be driven off to the nearest airport. That was that.
Now what?
A new form of solitude to contend with. That’s what.
He looked around the Bay and decided that it was time to make his way back to where his ‘home’ was. He walked slowly on the road... no point in being careful since there wasn't any real sort of traffic. This place wasn't as modern as the world he knew. Sometimes it was ridiculously satisfying to know that. As the view of the bay behind started to get further and further away he looked in anticipation to the forestry about to surround him.
He was always as excited for his usual trek as he was the first time he came to this place. It was always the animals that caught him by surprise first. He didn't know it at first... but the more and more Japanese marten, weasels and rodents that started to congregate meant he was heading closer to the more magnificent part of the forest. That's where the real surprises lay in wait.
It was called Koganenomori... His friend could read the Japanese and told him that it meant 'The Golden Forest' – aptly named given the stunning beauty before it. The Golden Yoshino Cherries on the tree were the reason why. They were a joy to behold. He was starting to forget about the grey skies of earlier.
Koganenomori was still a short distance away but it being on his mind seemed to subconsciously stir up another thought. Perhaps the general combination of thinking about home as well as friends on this day had been conducive. He wasn’t sure.
It happened a few months ago. It was in the Summertime where the Sun was shining all day and it's setting was well later on in the evening. He had woken up to a text message. Of course, internet and the like was still in existence on Tsushima… just not a big deal. He didn't recognise the number but the person who sent it was obvious. They spoke like they were friends. The sender clearly expected him to have the phone number saved.
It didn't matter anyway. He knew exactly who had sent it from the content. The only person who would have sent anything like this.
“16-6-20
We need someone for a tag tournament. I know we haven't spoken much. I don't even know where you are. But would you like to do it? Not for me but for you. For this place. ”
He hadn't kept up contact well with this person. It was sporadic. It had been a while since they had spoken about anything. He had been sleeping when it was sent. He saw it in the morning and hadn’t really expected it. He replied that he would take some time to consider his options. There wasn't much of a conversation. The only other thing that crossed his mind was the annoyance that this person didn’t know where he was.
That was definitely a lie.
That day, he carried out his routine and that's when he came to an answer. He had been resting at a small, black Inari Shrine in Koganenomori and drinking water. He had thought about the proposition throughout his entire run. For once things such as the Golden Yoshinos and the Martens were not at the forefront of his mind as he passed them all. He thanked Suijin as he got some of the sweet, sweet h2o.
The proposition meant it could be like old times. Something that, admittedly, would interest him. He had thought of what this could mean and what this could accomplish. He wasn’t interested in capturing glory though. He just wanted to have fun and that sounded like his idea of fun. Their pairing had once been described as lightning in a bottle. Could he conjure up that feeling once more?
He had stopped drinking for a breath. He had gone over the possibilities in his mind. He could feel a fire start to rumble down below in his belly. A spark desperate to ignite.
Fine, he thought, it’s about time. Let’s do this. He had taken out his phone to reply but he already had a new message from the same person. His heart sank a little.
“17-6-20
It’s fine. I got someone else. But… down the road, this is still something…”
The fire extinguished. The spark fizzling out. The cascading wave of disappointment was not something he expected. He wasn’t quite sure why he felt disappointed. Is it because he had wasted his time thinking or was there something deeper there? The first message was on the basis of doing it for himself… but the second message implied the person was really just thinking of themselves in the first place. He wasn’t first choice. He was a ‘choice’ and who knows what the truth was regarding that either.
Upon reflection, he was glad that this happened. It opened his eyes a little bit more. It pushed him away further and gave him more reason not to care… or so he thought. He now had a different perspective on things. Had he somehow found the reason? Or was he just overthinking.
In the present, he pondered the thought as he made his way through the forest passing the same spots from his memory. He wasn’t drinking water now as the rain started to seep through the porous canopy above. He was going to get drenched. He cast a glance at the old Inari Shrine. He wasn’t praising Suijin now.
With the thought of that June day sticking out...he decided to walk the same path he did that day. Up a small hill leading into an opening that overlooked the Frozen Lake just north of Azamo. The black rocks had small patches of moss growing through them as he climbed up onto the higher pathway where a 13th century Pillar of Honor stood atop. Assumedly, it was once glorious but the rock had become so weathered and eroded. It was living out its last days essentially.
It was a tribute to the brave samurai who had fought and defended their home against the oncoming onslaught of Mongolians or Huns as they kicked off their Invasion of Japan.. They stood no chance. But they saw it through to the end even if the impending doom was a fate they did not wish to face.
Is that what he had to do? His friend had told him to end it. Perhaps that was why he had to go home. He knew his friend hadn’t thought him afraid but perhaps that was the real reason he didn’t want to go home. Going home meant acknowledging that it was his time to say goodbye.
He wondered about the thought for a moment as he lit a small incense stick and placed it into the small shrine next to the pillar. There was the scents of Lavender and Jasmine starting to delightfully slice through his nostrils.
He wasn’t Japanese and he wasn’t comfortable acting as if he was a part of their culture but he still bowed to show respect. He felt a little stupid doing so. He would, jokingly, thank Shinto deities. He also accepted that it meant alot to people though.
It wouldn’t be too long until the people of Tsushima would come to the shrines all over to observe their New Year’s tradition of Hatsumode. The first shrine visit of the year. Some would bring charms in the hope that the shrine would grant them good luck or a wish for the year ahead. Some would even bring omens in the hope the shrine stopped them from happening. He didn’t feel like he had anything to bring. He didn’t need good luck right now. He didn’t need to fend off any omens.
Another custom was to observe Hatsushinode. The first sunrise of the year. Something he’s not sure he will partake in. The sunrise may carry it’s own sentiment with him… but it’s a sentiment he hasn’t felt in a while. A sentiment he has come to resent in some form. Perhaps it would be good fortune to do so though. Some believe it’s meant to bring a sense of hope or an answer. Some form of rejuvenation. He was skeptical.
The tradition also carried into Hatsuyume which was the first dream of the year. It apparently functions as a predictor for the year ahead. He was always usually too drunk to remember his dreams. If he was being honest with himself, he couldn't remember the last vivid dream he had. At this point, what good could a dream do? A dreamless wanderer is what he had become. He had somewhat accepted that.
He didn’t quite understand what sort of ideal he was bowing to as he showed appreciation. He stopped thinking about himself.
What did these men really fight for? Their Shogun? Their way of life? What did it really all mean to them? Did it all mean nothing in the end?
Sometimes his mind would settle on the answer to those questions. They had fought for nothing. Was that a thought that resonated a little deeper than the normal? Is that why his mind would revert to thinking that was the answer at the most basic level?
Alas, even if that was the answer… it was still something to be admired to know people fought fiercely for what they believed in. Whatever that may have been.
The Bushido code wasn’t something he’d ever adhere to. He wasn’t someone who could be bound by a code like that. He found it interesting though. ‘Codes’.... Bushido, Cosa Nostra… it didn’t matter. Do moral codes really need to be labelled in such a way? He was always his own man. He did what he wanted and that’s what made him unique. There wasn’t a label to slap on him. It’s what allowed him to walk away and feel satisfied with what he has done. He had fought hard enough for his own satisfaction. That’s what he was striving for, wasn’t it?
He lifted his head back up and took a small step back from the Pillar infront of him.The memories of the first time he stood at this spot came flooding back for a brief moment.
He had already seen a few shrines during his time in Tsushima and the country of Japan in general… but he still remembered his first time upon visiting this one. He wasn’t alone as he had been accompanied by some native ‘acquaintances’. They weren’t people he had known particularly well but they were in the same sort of business. They knew who he was and he had some inkling as to who they were. There was a mutual understanding there but that’s all it was. He had been accepted into their group in some form.
Their ‘leader’ so to speak stood out the most with his tan and bleach blonde hair. He spoke English fairly well and obviously the pair knew each other to a degree. They had never really met or spoken in person until earlier in the year.
They were standing roughly in the same spot and had been discussing a similar type of topic to his current, swirling thoughts. The Sun had been rising and painted the sky a near blood-red as the vivid, pink chrysanthemums on the surrounding hills bloomed. It would’ve been quite the contrast to the cold, steely visage of the present.
“They had to do everything. It was conform or be exterminated. There wasn’t much choice. You don’t fight and they’ll label you cowardly. A great shame. You fight like the unmatched warrior you should be then you are a threat to the Shogun’s power. I guess that’s why they had to see it through until whatever end fate had in store for them. Kill or be Killed really.”
Then he said something he didn’t expect. That sort of mentality never drove him.
“They were fools for the most part. That’s why nobody remembers their names.”
He stayed silent for a moment as birds chirped in the distance. The blonde man smirked for a moment before continuing to speak. This man had a way of speaking that made you unsure if he was being sarcastic. He knew he was being serious though by the sudden switch that seemed to turn on behind the eyes.
“They would’ve felt they had no choice, of course, but there’s always a choice. You’re the one in control of your destiny and not anyone else. They will have died as heroes yes… but heroes can still be fools. Destiny isn’t about being a fool. I guess I don’t understand the subservience to these sort of things. They may have had no choice but to fight that time but they still would ask ‘how high?’ if the Shogun had told them to jump. Imagine having that much power and influence over someone’s beliefs? It’s ridiculous. The Shogun will die just like all the rest. Frozen in time forever - the difference is that his name is remembered despite the fact he is no longer sunkissed. The others go down with all us knowing that their loyalty was just a tool. A means to an end.”
He remembered the last words sticking in his mind alot. They echoed and bounced around in his head as the Sun had slowly continued to rise over them. He was no hero but he was once sunkissed. Was he now frozen in time? Neither here nor there anymore. Loyalty? Well, he understood the idea behind the blonde one's words. It's not about being loyal. It's about being loyal to the right things, the right ideals and knowing what your loyalty is worth.
Was home where his loyalty lay? Was that the real reason it gnawed at him somewhat? A subconscious desire to do what he might feel is the 'right thing'. It always seemed to be the pattern amongst people like him. They could never break away. He certainly carried no extreme loyalties to this place yet he remained. He was in a place where people remembered him because he was a ‘gaijin’.They didn’t need to know his name. There wasn't anything that really had lured him away. He had come to be satisfied with that. It's not like he was hiding. He made no real secret of where he was and what he was doing. He had told people he was close to that if they wanted to find him, this is where he'd be. If they really wanted it that badly but of course, he's not arrogant enough to believe anyone's stupid enough to do it. Perhaps he knew that one day... he'd miss that feeling of battle. Maybe someone would actually do it one day.
He smirked to himself as he finished paying his respects in the present. He would go about his day as he normally would. The thoughts would come and go. A visit to the springs in Hiyoshi. A retreat to the nearby Golden Temple before making his way back to the small dojo-pagoda upon the hill that he had come to call home over the last year.
It was a weathered sight compared to what it must have been when originally built. There was no doubt that this place had seen many, many things. Blood, sweat and tears were essentially part of the foundation now. He knows that for a fact given what he had gone through to get here.
Similar to Azamo, this place was surrounded by forestry... except in sharp contrast to the bay, it was raised upon a hill rather than being more bowl-like. The Japanese no doubt used it as a strategic viewpoint as the remnants of a partially destroyed Lighthouse tower would overlook towards the South. The Lighthouse wasn't even needed due to a small onsen hot spring that had been situated to overlook the area. He had been told that there remained traps in some of the tunnels beneath that were designed to kill any invaders. He had been warned about waterfalls in this area. Any sign of them and you were to tread carefully. It kept him on his toes. He had been told stories about how invaders could be herded towards them and led to an impending doom. It wasn't gaijin-friendly... so to speak.
It being Christmas Day meant a small difference to how his night was. Messages from friends and family that would brighten the overall grey tone the day had. It wasn't anything special but... it would still remind him of home. He was very rarely away from there during the holiday season. Perhaps it was just another domino to fall in the swirling pool of thoughts that 'home' had infected inside his head. He doesn't necessarily believe in fate and destiny but a Christmas message had stood out to him. It was from someone from 'home'. He had the number saved this time. It was surely a coincidence.
D
“Merry Christmas bro! Hope you're staying safe out there. Have you been keeping up with things? Someone's been putting your name in their mouth quite a bit. You know who. I think you should come back and sort it. There's stupid rumours flying around that you're already here and waiting to pounce.”
G
“Merry Christmas man! It's almost over here. Hope it's been a good day. I can't say I have kept up. I can't say I'm interested either. I don't have anything to prove. People can talk about me. They know where to find me. I'm not 'pouncing' anyone.”
D
“So they have to be lookin' for the fight? Is that because you have none left?”
He knew this was just chat intended to get him riled up. It was common for them to rib each other.
G
“Yeah right. I've got plenty of fight. You know that. What is it with everyone trying to goad me with that bullshit line?”
D
“Did ‘S’ get you as well then? Just come back and it’ll stop. It'd be dope. Everything you've talked about... you can make it happen man. It'd be bomb.”
G
“It's not the right time.”
D
“When will it be? One of these days you'll just have to take that plunge brother. I really think it'd be great after what you've told me. But look, I get it, you're happy where you are. There's not much else to say on that but that place isn't where you belong.”
G
“Patience, man. I'm just waiting for the right moment. What’s with everyone hitting me with these vibes lately?”
D
“There's never going to be a right moment unless you make it happen, yenodah? Gotta just fuckin' go after it. Whatever you're waiting for... maybe it'll find you soon...”
He twigged at that. He could tell when he was letting something on.
G
“What's that supposed to mean dickhead?”
D
“It's like you've been saying. You ain't coming here. So maybe... something...SOMEONE is coming to you.”
He didn’t reply for a few minutes.
G
“What have you done?”
D
“What needed to be done. You'll thank me eventually. I'm the master. Just know that.”
G
“You're fucking with me.”
D
“You said to tell anyone that was looking for you. I told them. That's all it is. Have a Happy New Year when it comes, man. I've got some things of my own to deal with. Who knows... might even drop by your way soon too.”
G
“You won't like this place. It's not your dig.”
D
“Fuck it. I'll do what I want. 4th Jan 2021!!! x”
Of course, there was more to the conversation but the opening exchanges were really the parts that stood out to him. It would break down into a menial conversation. How's life? What's going on? Etc. Again, 'D' already knew the details. He had come to the island with individuals he had been training with. They had left after a brief stay but he enjoyed the seclusion enough to stay. Enjoying a 'freedom' of sorts that he hadn't had in a while. It was clear that 'D' respected that but thought it was time for a change. He could've been right. In any case, he knew it was clear that change was about to be instigated in some form. D had set something... or someone rather in motion. There was definitely someone on their way. No doubt about that.
He knew who it was. It could only be one person. Fleeting thoughts were one thing... but the knowledge that there was another person out there actively seeking him now. Well... he had to do something about that.
Later that night... he started to have a weird dream that would stick with him throughout the day.
It had been a long walk back from wherever it was he had been. He was tired… assumedly from training? It felt like a normal day.
The torrential rain drenching him was just as sapping as well. But the end was in sight as he walked past the Pagoda and to the edge of the cliff to survey the land he had, yet again, conquered. It was like times in reality where completing a training day had felt like a complete and total victory over this island.
Wiping the rain from his brow - only for it to be immediately soaked again - he dropped his rucksack to the ground but kept his waterbottle in his hand. Taking a quick, refreshing drink, he closes his eyes and savours the moment before invading thoughts cross his mind.
What was he pushing so hard for? How could he be so sure of any reward at the end of this road? He had nothing left to prove to anyone.
He opened his eyes and those thoughts were immediately ejected as he could see a figure on the horizon. It was too far away to make out anything solid but it was moving... towards him... was this who he had heard about?
There was no doubting now. They were looking for him. Was this what he had been waiting for? The spark to ignite the fire within... now a glimpse on the horizon?
He didn't notice that his fists had started clenching as he fixed his gaze down below at the figure inching their way closer to his location. He stopped to look down at them - slightly shaking. A feeling he hadn't felt in a while. This was confirmation. Was he about to have a fight on his hands?
Quickly, he jolted his head upwards after losing slight focus. His eyes searched for a brief moment before realising... the figure had stopped moving.
And there it was.
The feeling he had been desiring for a long time now. It washed over him as he realised that he and his hunter were staring each other down some distance apart. That chemical rush of oxytocin and adrenaline.
Who knows what his future adversary was thinking in this moment. Maybe the same thing. Maybe something different. But all he knew, as he stared back, was this...
The stage was set.
COME AND GET ME.
And then he would wake up.
The dream was as lucid as he could remember. It felt real. The thoughts he had in the dream would stay within his head throughout the coming days. He brushed it off as mostly just something derived from his actual mindset that night. The days passed and his dreams would change though...
It was snowing around the area he had lived in and he had taken a small walk to the lighthouse. He seemed intent on finding something but couldn’t quite get there. A feeling of frustration and hopelessness would kick in until he’d see the same thing through the blizzard-like mist every time.
It was a leopard with a coat so golden it almost burned his eyes to look at it. He felt the need to approach it and did so. But everytime he followed, it would get further and further away. It would lead him to the same place every time. He knew exactly where it was taking him. He recognised the frozen over lake that was his destination. The leopard would stop and then dissipate into the mist as if it was never really there. He would look up a the Pillar of Honor in the far off distance to confirm where he was.
And just as he recovered from that, he’d turn around and be confronted with a familiar figure staring at him from across the opening. He knew who it was… and just before he could get any further… he would always look down at his hands. Somewhat bloody and broken but holding two different objects. A sword of some type and in his other hand… he didn’t even know how to describe it. It was wooden for sure but y the time he had stared at it long enough to start figuring out its details, the ice would always collapse beneath him. Suddenly the frozen cold engulfed him, icy waves enveloping and cascading, he couldn’t escape what had become a nightmare.
Then he woke up.
Every single time it happened. He remembered it clear as day. It was the adrenaline that would pulse through him for the first few seconds after waking up. That was a feeling he hadn’t had in a while. That’s what he had wanted. He felt that in his dreams. It would grow stronger too. He knew he’d wake up one day and the feeling wouldn’t subside. It wouldn’t be just a dream anymore.
He had messaged ‘D’ about it but wasn’t taken seriously. ‘How did you manage to score stuff on that island, holy shit bring me some’ was pretty much the gist of the responses.
It was just a few days after when his solitude was broken as the group of Japanese people he had been staying and training with on Tsushima had returned from the mainland. From what he gathered, they were gearing up for the biggest event of the year and trained here as a form of team getaway in order to prepare themselves. He didn’t particularly interfere as he wasn’t truly part of the team. A guest of honor… or just a guest, really? In any case, he still joined them on training journeys and whatever else they were up to. If anything, he had learned over the years that an ‘outside of the box’ perspective was always interesting.
Throughout his time here he had definitely gained a new perspective on the world that came before. He had spoken to his acquaintances who’d never known of it properly. His world didn’t affect their perception of their own world. He slowly found that the more time he spent outside of his previous bubble… the more he thought it was perhaps for the best. Of course, that had begun to change in the present.
With no one to turn to with regards to advice other than ‘D’... he sought out the words of the blonde man. They had walked throughout the gardens before the pagoda and had spoken about the days ahead. He had explained that he was expecting a visitor. He knew all too well that ‘visitors’ don’t get to come in with a free pass. His hosts weren’t exactly receptive to the idea of their fortress being impregnated. Again, he knew this all too well. He was made to run a gauntlet before getting a bed. He had the advantage of knowing things about this island that his visitor wouldn’t. They had walked to main clearing of the hill, next to the dilapidated Lighthouse, where they could see over the forest and everything before it. The blonde man pointed out at the horizon.
“If your visitor wishes to invade our privacy. They’ll have to earn it. Like we discussed. This place has an advantage and you have the advantage. They don’t know what to expect at all. You… you’ve spoken to me like you are expectant of someone at the very least. Why not use this knowledge to your advantage?”
The man tapped his brow as if he had an idea.
“We can lead your guest. Engineer their journey through here so we get them to where you need them to be. Exactly where they need to be too I am sure.”
He returned a questioning look at the blonde man but he then realised that he had the perfect opportunity to maybe gain some answers. He knew exactly where this person would need to be for him. He had seen it already. But how?
The slightly quizzical look on his face had betrayed him already. The blonde man had a chuckle to himself. He pointed to the forest.
“We’ll know when they are there. We will get them there. Then we direct them….”
He responded before the blonde man could even begin his impending question.
“The Frozen Lake is where it happens.”
The assuredness in his response seemed to strike the blonde man’s curiosity. There was a look that signalled for him to explain.
“I don’t know how to explain it. I’ve just been… having these weird dreams, lately. This golden animal would take me to the Frozen Lake. I’d be standing across from my assumed opponent and well… the ice breaks. I don’t know what the deal is. I’m holding some sort of wooden katana and a golden triangle or something?”
The blonde man had been listening intently but he stumbled in his nodding along at the mention of the animal and triangle.
“Do you know something?”
“You know people take their dreams seriously in this place. What I can say is that this golden animal… did it resemble a big cat?”
“Yes.”
“A leopard of some sort leading you?”
“Yes.”
The blonde man had grinned at him.
“You’re not about to ask me if I’ve been high here have you?”
He stopped grinning.
“No. What? I don’t know anything about that. Nobody in Japan does. What I do know is that you seem to have encountered a legend. The Tsushima Leopard.”
“Go on.”
He was intrigued.
“They say that the legendary sole leopard of Tsushima makes itself known to those who are seeking answers. It provides guidance. Some say that sometimes this is literal and some say that sometimes this is symbolic. Some people even claim to have encountered it in real life…”
“You… ?”
“No. Not me. I don’t come here looking for answers. I already have them.”
“I didn’t come here seeking answers either.”
“But you obviously needed to figure something out right? Otherwise, this wouldn’t happen. Anyways, the Leopard is a common story around these parts. What you described being in your hand is not. Golden Triangle? I know exactly what you’re talking about. It’s an amulet I have in my possession.”
“What am I meant to do with this amulet? I mean... this is all a bit sudden?”
The blonde man paused for a second.
“We’ll take it to Azamo Bay. We’ll hand it into the shopkeep or the fishermen there. Your guest will no doubt pass through the area. They will need it for what we have planned.”
“We aren’t about to kill someone, are we?”
He supposes he didn’t know if this forthcoming person was coming to kill him to be fair. However, he was half serious. The blonde man laughed in response.
“No. Not at all. Why would we do that? Let’s not get too dark here. I think it’ll maybe come in handy when they might feel all hope is lost. Think of how we helped with your training.”
“I understand. I’ll put my trust in you.”
“Oh. You should. You know this person, I know the island. It’ll work just fine.”
He wondered if perhaps it was too late to have brought this all up. Had he slacked off? No. He had been training every day. Everything he could to stay on top. The harsh terrain and the weather had no chance of breaking him. Nothing stood a chance.
“What if they’re here already?”
"We would have heard by now. You’re the only gaijin here. People would have talked. Nothing is happening in Azamo so they haven’t arrived yet. Let’s face it… this person is not coming to just have a talk with you. You say they’ve been sent here by your friend… who from what I understand… likes to fight. The intention is clear. I think you’ve known that all along.”
“Of course. That’s what this was always going to be about right?”
“Who is it you’re expecting… if you don’t mind me asking?”
“An old friend. I’m pretty sure of it.”
“Is that who the leopard leads you to?”
“Yes.”
“But that does not mean the person in your dreams is the person you will meet in reality.”
He was slightly dumbfounded at that.
“What do you mean?”
There was a harsh tone of disappointment in his voice.
“I can tell you’ve put some thought into this and there’s a heavier story behind it all. That’s not for you to tell me. I know you. I know where you’ve come from. I understand why you came here and why you left that world. You don’t miss it as much as you think you should.”
“I suppose that’s correct. But it doesn’t feel…”
The man cuts him off.
“Right? You feel that you are waiting…just waiting for a sign that you’ve made the right choice or not. It hasn’t come yet. There are times where you do miss it. You can’t deny that.”
“It has been stronger recently. I’ve been doing some thinking right? I’m waiting.. looking...”
“Then maybe this is what you’re looking for. An answer.”
He stopped and pondered the words for a moment.
“Maybe.”
“And what if your dreams are ruined when it isn’t your old friend?”
He had forgotten about that part of the conversation. He couldn’t really see any alternative. If that was what his dreams were showing him then that’s what had to happen.
“Impossible. There’s nobody else it could be. Nobody else it should be.”
The blonde man cast him a skeptical look.
“I wouldn’t be so sure. Think about it. You’re already setting yourself up for emotion disappointment. You’re letting the opponent take the element of surprise when you have the home advantage. Prepare for any possibilities. Brainstorm. Think right now. Your friend has set this up? Marry it up to who you expect. Would he send them?”
He still remembered the message from June. His friend claimed to not know where he was. He still believed that to be a lie.
“He would’ve already known where I was. Always has.”
There was a smirk cast at him. He’d fallen into a trap. Only in his mind could he let out a huge groan. He might have his this one wrong.
“Then why would your friend, ‘D’, send him? Make it make sense.”
He was right. There was no need to be a middle man. There never has been.
“Damn….”
He trailed off for a minute. There was a bitter flash flood of disappointment but it’s sting was just a momentary one. There was a new wave of excitement that sort of rushed through him for a second. He was curious.
“Then that means… it could be anyone…”
“Not necessarily. Think a little more. Your friend has kept in touch with you somewhat? He must be telling you things. You’re not there in that world anymore but you have kept in contact. I bet you know a lot more than you are letting on at times to be honest.”
“Of course…”
It was undeniable. His friend ‘D’ had kept him in touch with a few things. The blonde men pressed on it.
“Then who does he speak to? Who does he wish to help? It’s evident that he is not only doing this for your benefit from how you have described it to me.”
It was true that ‘D’ wouldn’t send anyone here that he didn’t trust. If this was, indeed, going to be a showdown of sorts then he must have respected them.
“Well…”
He shook his head for a moment. Of course it was going to be that person. How did he not realise? This was D’s attempt to pull him back in. If he couldn’t do it then he would’ve gone with this person. Surely. He looked back at the blonde man with a crass, knowing smile. His blue eyes lit up.
“My friend’s a smart bastard. I think now that it’s hit me… it should have been obvious. He’s trying to impress a girl. She is tough. He rates her highly. He’s undoubtedly trying to help her with something but he knows that a fight with her could pull me back in.”
There was a surprised expression on the blonde man for once.
“A girl is coming to fight you?”
His eyes narrowed in response as he realised the blonde man would know her quite well. They had history.
“MvH.”
He expected an outburst of rage or some kind of fierce showing but instead he nodded his head slightly and then leant back. He snorted with a derisory tone…This was the first time in quite a while he had noticed the man become animated.
“Michelle van Horrowitz? Good luck with her. You can tell her that LIGHTBRINGER has been watching… and laughing at her. She’s a worthless insect.”
He piped in...
“I forgot you had history.”
LIGHTBRINGER responded back sharply.
“That’s all it is. History. I don’t like her very much at all. You have made wanting to help you a bit more motivating now I know who the other person involved is. If you’re sure it has to be her...”
He smirked back at LIGHTBRINGER…
“It is.”
There was a hearty laugh from LIGHTBRINGER.
“Then know that… the second she arrives here. She won’t feel at home. She is going to be taken through hell and back just to get to you. She’ll feel like she is being watched no matter she is. This is hostile ground for Michelle van Horrowitz.
Tomorrow, we’ll go to Azamo. Then I will show you what I have planned.”
Seeing what the man had planned for his future opponent was going to be the making of her in a way. He was sure of that. They had left for Azamo and passed off something for their visitor to the Fishermen. They made sure to keep an eye out. They wouldn’t miss her. They visited other spots they knew would serve someone well on their journey. A plan was set in motion.
It was New Year’s when he had been resting in the onsen at the top of the hill. He had noticed signs of his visitor recently. A campfire he had noticed near the forestry below had still been in full flame when he began his bath. He had taken a gander up at the starlit sky above. The time was surely near. He closed his eyes for a brief moment and thought of words that LIGHTBRINGER had spoken to him.
“When you wake up and go outside and it’s exactly like your dream. Snowing. Cold. That feeling is in the air. You’ll know it. That’s when.”
The dream came to him once more. This time though… he didn’t hold the wooden sword or amulet. There was no golden leopard in the distance. The mist was clear. He walked the same path he had walked a dozen or so times. It was all so familiar. He stepped onto the frozen lake. He was stable on it. He felt comfortable that he had grip. He looked around. He couldn’t see anyone. He sighed slightly and took a step forward. He looked out onto the snow covered terrain below. Words of LIGHTBRINGER echoed through his head.
“When you look her in the eyes. You tell her who you are. You tell her that she has no idea what she is going to go through. You think about how long it’s been since you’ve been you. How long it’s been since you haven’t just been the gaijin everywhere you go? Far too long.Michelle van Horrowitz will stand infront of you and you will get to be who you are once again. You make sure she knows who the fuck you are. You’re…”
And before the thought in his head could finish. He is startled by a female’s voice behind him. She calls his name. He feels his fists clench as he turns around and stands across from her His opponent is finally here.
And then… before he can do anything, he’s ripped away from that world and floating back in reality in the onsen. His eyes wide open. He dozed off.
He looks down at the location the campfire. Small smoke pillows out instead of the previous orange blaze. There's a tingle of adrenaline and excitement that begins to diffuse throughout his body. This one won't go away. This is what he has been waiting for.
Soon. | .
ACT III
20.01.2021
. |
iii. Act Three: "On the Island" (January 20th, 2021).
January 1st, 2021.
北対馬 長崎 日本
NORTH TSUSHIMA. Nagasaki, Japan.
As the sun rose to its apex and the winter wind continued to relentlessly hound her, she stepped through the two legs of the shrine and onto the edge of the cliff. Staring off to the south, towards the sun, she could see all the way to Azamo Bay. She had come far. To the north, the lonely ‘mountain’ (in truth, the thing was little more than a hill) loomed ominously. Around it, blue skies suggested a serene and comely picture, but in her heart Michelle knew that storms were lurking just ahead. The snow was thick and difficult underfoot, and she ran out of cigarettes two days ago. It hardly seemed worth it, but coming this far and turning back was no longer in the young woman’s vernacular. Whether that was a good thing remained to be proven.
The wooden Inari structure had been painted bright orange and black and stood perhaps six or even eight metres tall. As she stepped through it she regarded a small stone statue that had been weathered by the elements and by time itself. Details had been chipped away, and most of it was now covered in a thick, damp moss, but you could still make out the shape of a deer rearing up onto its hind leg. Its front hooves padded against the air as it stared out over the cliff and towards the landscape below. Michelle could see the cherry blossom - still blooming in vivid pinks and reds despite the harsh realities of winter - leading onwards to the thick dense woodland, and beyond that the mountain.
She breathed in a thick lungful of clean air, her eyes transfixed upon the white hill on the horizon. It had been several days since she had seen another human being, and some respite from their cloying attitude towards social interaction was much appreciated. Only now, as her journey came towards its end and she neared the northern tip of the island, did she begin again to contemplate the existence of others. There were eyes ahead, eyes that would be transfixed upon her as she made her approach: a black speck upon the white horizon.
As she regarded the remainder of her journey, a small, brown fox padded across the snow and came to rest at her feet. It first looked across the horizon towards the forest, and then up at Michelle. Slowly and delicately, she lowered herself onto her haunches, and was pleased to find that the fox didn’t recoil. She ran her hand through its fur, eliciting a pleasing rumble from the animal’s stomach. Afterwards, she stood erect again, and watched on as the fox skipped away through the snow.
Whilst making her descent, Michelle found her mind racing towards the recent past, and the journey across Japan by train and then by boat with the kaiju. They had separate cabins when travelling over land, and after the first couple of hours Michelle wandered down the carriages to find the bar. She eventually came to settle in the third class section, far away from Snowmantashi, who was travelling with his favoured female servant and a couple of his young lions. The woman had left her bokken upon the foothills of Mount Fuji but had brought a series of vibrant kimonos with her for the journey. Michelle had been given her own wooden sword as a leaving gift, and usually kept it wedged between her rucksack and her back. It wasn’t until they reached Hiroshima that they secured passage to the island (and beyond) upon a fishing boat travelling to Korea for the spring season. They sailed beneath bridges through a canal near Kitakyushu and traversed the boundary between the East China Sea and the Sea of Japan. All the while, as they felt the soft undulations of the tide in their cabin on board the fishing vessel, the woman in the kimono relentlessly stared at Michelle with disdain. She now wore an eyepatch, a product of the European’s dirty play, a handful of sand, and a series of swift forearms.
When they arrived at Azamo Bay, Michelle disembarked, the ship carrying Snowmantashi and his entourage onwards to South Korea. The kaiju had a meeting of his own in Seoul, and was not forthcoming with further details, which suited Michelle just fine. He stretched his legs on the shore before his departure and gave Michelle a curt and cursory goodbye. She tried not to read too much into it. Snowmantashi was renowned for his passivity, and determining what emotions lay behind the calm shore that he presented to the world was a fool’s errand. But Michelle couldn’t help but sense the disappointment within the kaiju, as if he felt she had made the wrong decision, and passage back to North America would be better suited to her needs. She didn’t live for his approval, though, and with nothing more than a nod she departed.
She spent a few hours in the village, failing to find and buy Camels and lamenting not having a pipe or papers to smoke the tobacco that was on sale here. She had half a box of cigarettes stuffed into the front pocket of her bag for emergencies, but knew that this wouldn’t be enough to see her through to the end of the journey. In a wooden shack - home to a small store that sold general goods and fishing supplies - she punctuated her visible disappointment at the lack of usable tobacco products with a kick of the counter. The Japanese man behind it put his hands out in front of him, reaching across the counter as if trying to placate her.
“But I do have something for you,” the man said, his voice dripping with accent, his face kindly and unassuming. Michelle had her hands in her pockets and looked at him dully. The man reached under the counter and received a small, black box. He placed it on top of the counter. The woman didn’t take her eyes from his face, attempting to get a read on the stranger and his intentions.
“For me?” she asked, finally regarding the box in front of her. She noticed that three small, green letters had been inscribed onto the lid in green ink: MvH. It was even stylised correctly. “How did you know I’d come here?”
“The man said you’d need cigarettes,” he answered. Michelle frowned and picked up the box. If the man said I’d need cigarettes, she thought, why don’t you have any fucking cigarettes?
“Who gave this to you?” she said, opening the lid of the box and beholding the object inside. It was something resembling a gold amulet on a silver chain. The shape of the gold piece was a long and narrow isosceles triangle, tapered as it reached the unique vertex, and rounded off at the edges. She held it up to the light for a moment, a look of confusion plain on her face, before placing it back into the box.
“Five days ago, a gaijin comes in to my store,” the man started. It sounded like the beginning of a joke, but he had an earnest and sincere look on his face. “He doesn’t buy anything, but he gives me this box, and tells me that another gaijin would come to the island. She would arrive in the village for supplies, probably cigarettes and water, and I should give the box to her.”
Michelle gave the man one more strange, inquisitive look, before picking up the amulet and placing it in her rucksack. She left the box on the counter.
“Thanks?” she said, though she wasn’t particularly sure of herself. ”The other gaijin. Where is he?”
“To the north,” the man said. He pointed off behind him, and Michelle took his word for it that this was the correct direction. “On the other side of the island there is a white hill, surrounded by evergreens. You can’t miss it.”
Michelle had made it to the other side of the island and the hot springs by New Year’s Day, when the first falls of the blizzard began. She had a foreboding sense that it would worsen, coupled with an ominous, almost creeping dread surrounding what waited for her on the hill. She had visions of a pair of eyes watching her and felt altogether uncomfortable at the prospect of the oncoming encounter, only hours - a day at the most - in her future. The cold that was settling into her bones brought with it a feeling that she was marching to her defeat and to her doom.
But march she did, if only because the words of the handsome man followed her even now.
It was the day after her last FWA show when the handsome man had invaded her sanctuary within the confines of a small, grungy bar. It was located thousands of miles away, across an ocean and a continent, on the other side of the world: within the old harbour in Toronto. It had become a regular haunt for Michelle as she elected to hide from the general hustle and bustle of the city. That was particularly important after the events of the final Fight Night of the year, when Mike Parr had bludgeoned her with his lead pipe (again) and placed her at the centre of a storm. She had no intention of opening herself up under the public’s gaze, let alone their questions, and so the hatches were battened down.
She should have known better. It was just a handful of days since the last time she’d last been here, and on that occasion - by nothing more than coincidence - she was joined by two of her colleagues from the FWA’s big top circus. There was Devin Golden, fresh from his tag team championship victory at Mile High, and the new ‘gauntlet’ champion, the handsome man, Danny Toner. It appeared that Danny had taken a liking to the place, and again through the doors he walked, as if he had some right to burst her bubble and force his company upon her within this tavern for a second time.
When he sat down at the bar, the large, balding man behind it wordlessly placed a bottle of beer in front of him. Danny picked it up, nodded his thanks, and then knocked back a healthy pull. Michelle couldn’t be sure if he was celebrating or commiserating. She didn’t really care. Instead, she just let out a lengthy, impatient sigh.
“Somethin’ on your mind, Dreamer?” asked Danny. Ask was probably too strong of a word to use. The way Danny spat the question out made it seem more like a statement. He cast a cool gaze her way. “Don’t play coy with me, I ain’t as dumb as I look. I know that you haven’t spoken to… you probably haven’t spoken to anyone since the show, have you? I know you don’t like doin’ it but I’m here to talk. So either say somethin’ or I’ll just start talking myself.”
Danny gave Michelle a half-second to reply before he pressed on. Relentless. It was the only way to describe him.
“Aight then… I’ll talk. Mike Parr, huh? Never trusted the guy. I remember the first time I met you I told you not to feel bad about what you did to the New Breed. I told you I’d have done the same thing. Bet you’re glad you did that now, huh?” he continued, laughing in between swigs of his beer. “You know this is only the start of it, right? With Parr and The New Breed. And, Dreamer, as much as I know you can look after yourself, you can’t always do it by yourself. I got your back if you need it, you know. It’s the least I can do since… uh… since my advice didn’t turn out to be so hot for you in the tag finals.”
Danny took another hearty swig of his beer and looked at von Horrowitz. She returned his gaze apathetically, and regarded his aging but comely features. She had no reason to talk to him, but he was (if nothing else) persistent in his attempts to coax her into something resembling interaction. This was their third or fourth such meeting, and although she had no intention of making a habit of it, it seemed clear that he intended to make a habit of her.
His words were familiar, but framed in perhaps a more earnest way than she was used to. The three names were already in her mind, even before Toner had entered: Snowmantashi, Connelly, Parr. In all three defeats, she had approached the match with little or no concern for others that might be willing to help her. That was most true with Parr. He had pinned her in a tag team match, begrudgingly partnering with the North American Champion, whilst she had ignored her own lotterized partner: the man who had profited most obviously and immediately from her attack. The new X Division Champion. The same man would become the closest thing she had to a friend in the company. But her lack of hubris, her headstrong will to settle scores independently and conclusively, had resulted in Mike Parr holding a pinfall victory over her. She had no doubt he would bring this up the first chance he could, and she had no choice but to confront it. Toner’s explanation was a simple one, perhaps even the correct one, but she wasn’t yet willing to accept this truth. Instead, she would search further for reason, and find nothing buried in the snow.
But she did see the sense in turning to others for help. Just not towards the handsome man, or anyone else that shared this continent with him, save Gerald.
“The last time we spoke…” she began, considering their most recent conversation carefully. Toner had revealed to her the secrets of his friends’ finisher, the Remix Kick, but there were too many variables in that match for this advice to be of much use. She thought about her loss in the finals, and remarked to herself upon the fact that everything, every thought and every idea, seemed to lead back to a defeat in the ring. “Things were very different to how they are now. I struggle to really even remember before Mile High, and my optimism - of a peculiar brand, I admit - now seems alien and unimaginable. Since then, my failures have been repeated and colossal, and…”
Here she paused, unsure as to whether she should go on. Toner was, in essence, a rival, but through nothing more than proximity and repeated exposure she found herself willing to let him into the circle.
“... and I begin to hear the same voices as I heard years ago. Those that speak of Snowmantashi, and now Bell Connelly, and of course, Mike Parr. I don’t know. Being this way has got me this far, but with men like Parr - devious and knavish and without moral floors - a certain amount of guile is necessary. Charging in will get me nowhere, and I’ve been making the same mistakes for years. I can’t keep doing the same thing and expecting something in return other than defeat.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a plan,” Toner replied, twirling his bottle by the neck between his fingers before taking a swig. He regarded the woman carefully, as if he was trying to work her out and finding it took longer than expected. “You on the Christmas show? New Year’s? Same one as Parr, I imagine.”
“The Blackbird isn’t booking me,” Michelle answered, signalling to their friend behind the bar to pour her another drink. He dutifully did so and then placed a second beer down next to Toner. The handsome man raised an eyebrow, as if he didn’t quite believe the European willing or able to stay away from the festivities completely.
“That doesn’t mean you won’t be there,” Toner offered, beginning to reach around in his pockets for a cigarette.
“I won’t be there,” she said, sure of herself and of her answer. “I think I’ll go to Japan for a little while. The kaiju made me an offer that I’ve been meaning to follow up on for a while.”
“Japan, huh?” replied Toner, his tone curious: inquisitive but not questioning. He pulled out a cigarette and stared at it for a moment. He looked left and right, taking in the quiet atmosphere of the bar and somewhat relaxing but still, at this juncture, he looked a little unnerved. Abruptly and without warning he jumped to his feet. “Let’s you and I go for a smoke.”
The handsome man turned on his heels and strode towards the front door without so much as a backward glance at Michelle. He pushed open the front door of the bar, allowing the stinging, winter chill briefly engulf the warm interior of the bar before the door slammed shut behind him. Curious, Michelle finished the dregs of her drink, picked up her cigarettes and followed him outside.
He was sitting on a wooden picnic bench outside the bar. Not sitting in a traditional way: rather with his feet on the bench part of the furniture. He was gazing out at the stars, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth as he lazily motioned for Michelle to come and join him before reverting his eyes to the sky of stars, deep in thought. Michelle inched closer to Danny, but didn’t join him on the bench. For once, his powerful gaze wasn’t locked on her, rather, it was fully focused on the night sky. Softly, almost gently, he made a direct enquiry. “Why Japan? Why Snowmantashi?”
She paused before she answered, fumbling around in her pockets for her box of cigarettes. Eventually she managed to retrieve one, holding it out towards Toner for him to light. Afterwards, she stared only at the moon, which was dim and dull and only half-out, whilst the stars shone in an oddly bright fashion considering the many street lights in near proximity. The general din of the city usually had its way and violated any semblance of peace to be found in the night’s sky, but tonight seemed to be the exception that proved the rule.
Why is a question that so many people felt they had the right to ask, but in truth it is the most personal request that can be made of another person. To lay bare one’s mind and reveal its inner workings is as naked as a person can be, and still we request it of one another at a moment’s notice. Even now, as she regarded the dull light of the moon cascading down onto the face of the harbour, the handsome man was requesting a private tour around her most private thoughts, and she found herself on the cusp of opening herself up to him. The only thing that stopped her was a lack of clarity. This hesitance, this blip in her confidence... it clogged her throat. Toner was insisting on verbalization of a thought that was not at this stage complete.
“Why?” she repeated, almost to buy time. She tapped her cigarette at her side and watched the ash form on the concrete next to her foot. “Well, I guess this all started with him.”
“All what started with him?” Toner asked. At first, she thought him being obtuse, but perhaps her previous speech on the matter was only half-understood to those not residing within her head. She sucked on her cigarette, and mulled over her current predicament, attempting to reduce it to its bare minimum for the ears of an outsider.
“Almost four years ago now, I met the kaiju at Five-Star Attraction, and he bested me. Professionally humiliated me. Two months later, he beat me again. Since then, regardless of what I project, I still walk beneath the shadow of this man. I feel it, and I hear what they say. Snowmantashi, Connelly, Parr… all of my notable opponents... all defeats. The kaiju has done the things that I have simply been talking about for years. I don’t know if he’ll have the answers I’m searching for, but…”
Her cigarette had run out and she let it fall to the floor, placing her shoe on top of it to extinguish the remnants. She stuffed her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie and stared out over the harbour.
“But I need to be away from here, you know?”
”I do know.” The reply was short and quick, but not cutting. Danny continued to stare out at the stunningly bright stars in the night sky, and one that shone yet more brightly than the others. Michelle considered his features and studied how his eyes glinted in the starlight. What did the handsome man know? What could he know about this? Suddenly, he snapped his lingering eyes away from the stars and stared at Michelle. She often questioned the handsome man’s true motivations, but it seemed to her that any time she was ready to wash her hands of the distraction, he managed to reel her back in. “Japan? What is it with that place? Princeton’s railing me about getting a deal sorted over there but… nah… it ain’t for me. I guess I’ll be honest and say I wish you were staying here. I hope you come back. I would ask you to stay in touch whilst you’re out there, but, uh… yeah.”
Danny stood up from the bench and flicked his cigarette away. He stepped closer to Michelle, momentarily, but then suddenly stopped and just smiled - Danny imagined Michelle wouldn’t respond well to an emotional or physical departure. Not least with what she surely considered no more than an intriguing acquaintance (despite Danny’s efforts for that to be more). He glanced out at the sky one more time, taking in the radiant beauty of the stars. He chuckled softly, his eyes never leaving the sky. ”So, Japan gains another legend, huh?”
“At least for now,” Michelle said with a smile.
“You know,” Toner continued. “I do know who the kaiju is and I get better than anyone that you can’t leave unfinished business behind. I know you might be skeptical, Michelle, but honestly: I ain’t up to anything here. I like you and I want to help you. I can tell I might not be able to help you in what you’re trying to find in Japan, but… maybe I know somebody that can.”
”You know someone that you think can help me? In Japan?” Michelle felt herself responding involuntarily, intrigued by the handsome man’s words.
”Heh, why d’ya seem so surprised? You ain’t the first to go to the Orient, you know?” Danny whipped his head away from the stars and looked deeply into Michelle’s eyes once again, sincerity gleaming in his own. “Oh, I know somebody alright. The Island of Tsushima. That’s where you want to go. You want to stand there and tell me you feel like you’re in Snowmantashi’s shadow? That’s fine, I get that. Go and see him. Sort your shit out with him, but... if you really want to see what you’re made of? Go to the island. Get your answers.”
The handsome man zipped up his jacket and turned his back on Michelle, beginning to walk away. He didn’t look back once, but still he spoke before he disappeaing into the cold, Toronto night. ”You see there’s somethin’ you’ve gotta remember about the kaiju, Dreamer. He can teach you to climb mountains, but not the mountain you want to climb.”
And like a moth to a flame, she had come. Back on Tsushima, she had left the hot springs and wandered between the cherry blossom trees until she came to the edge of the dark, dense forest. After a deep breath (more for dramatic effect than anything), she pushed between the thick trunks and gnarled boughs and into the shadow of the woodland. Inside, the air was thick and clogged in her lungs, and the passage was constantly blocked and progress subsequently hard-earned. It cleared somewhat after perhaps a hundred metres, and she could pick her way through the branches without risking tears to her clothes and her skin, but still the oppressive feeling remained. She found the oxygen here thick, despite being at the base of the hill, and all-the-while she felt the gaze of her familiar stranger cutting through the shadow and into her soul. These eyes were joined by a second pair, and the Ghost of Mike Parr haunted her again.
Onwards she plunged, and the distant and unsettling feeling that someone was watching her soon matured into something else completely. There now seemed to be eyes within the forest. When she stopped and crouched low, listening intently to the faint buzz of the woods around her, she thought she could hear breathing, and found herself circling around in semi-terror, fearful that someone or something had wandered close to her, or reached out towards her with icy fingers. Each time, there was only empty space, and her inability to face what was haunting her scared her more than anything.
Once again, she was crouched on her haunches, listening to the sounds of the forest, hoping something, somewhere, would give her some indication of which way lay north and the free air outside the boundaries of the forest. It was hopeless, and in her desperation she allowed herself the pointless luxury of a heavy, disappointed sigh. It was then that, perhaps only ten metres away, she heard the unmistakable sound of light feet brushing through the undergrowth, moving quietly but not silently. Grass rustlin underfoot... the occasional twig snapping... trees whistling as the gentle wind and hands of travellers - of interlopers - pushed them this way and that. She circled to face the direction of the sounds’ source and, without much thought to taking any other course of action, slowly walked towards it. She was careful to make as little sound as possible, but the trees still pressed in closely around her, and she cursed herself for each inelegant step.
She reached and surely passed the place that the noise emanated from, but with little or no light - save for the dull shards of sun that found their way through the branches and leaves - it was impossible to decipher any footprints or signs of general disturbance. Instead, she crouched again, and listened. Once more, the sound of a man or men quietly traversing the forest came to her, and she re-set herself on a bearing of thirty degrees before creeping towards it. Things went on like this for a short time, and at one point Michelle was sure she felt a person moving across her person, right before her face. But no contact was made, and eventually she feared that she was only being led.
And led she was, until she reached a small opening in the edge of the forest, through which she stepped into a clearing around twenty meters wide and half that long. She had gradually become to feel as if she was climbing, and now - stood in the clearing and regarding the hillside once more - she confirmed this suspicion. At the far end of the clearing was a cliff face, only four or five metres high, and bereft of snow because of the awkward angle at which it jutted out of the hill. In the centre of the cliff face was a waterfall, and through the snow-covered clearing at its base ran a small but swift stream. She drank from it greedily before regathering her energy and approaching the waterfall.
She spent most of the early evening and some of the night sitting beneath the shadow of the small cliff, her head against the rock and her eyes closed. She listened to the melodies of the water. Now, the thought of shadows leading her through the woods to this place seemed almost comical, and even the idea that she was being watched from beyond seemed distant and unthreatening. She knew that if she waited long enough, if she displayed the requisite patience required for a feeling so pure and so beautiful, she would feel alone in this world as she was alone in this clearing. Eventually, it came, and she slowly breathed it in, savouring every moment of it. There was nothing like it.
Eventually, though, she was forced to open her eyes by the nagging procession of time, and she found the last of the day’s sunlight had been expended. The moon wasn’t yet high enough to rear its head about the hill, but a pale band of light was visible on the horizon. A few stars had begun to take their place in the sky, scouting ahead before their brothers and sisters were to join them later in the night. She regarded the waterfall once more, tracing a line to its height, and on top of the cliff she noticed another deer statue much like the one that had heralded her arrival at the hill. She smiled to herself, and wondered if her fox friend had made its way through the forest too. Taking a few steps back to get a better look, she spotted another Inari structure a few metres behind, and closer to the statue rocks had been placed into a mound as if an excavation had taken place. She wondered if a path up the cliff-face and to the hillside beyond was closer than it at first appeared.
Before she left, she allowed herself a little of the food that Hiroshi had packed her from Snowmantashi’s kitchens, which had been added to along the way in the various stations and ports they’d stopped at. She ate a handful of nuts, some dried fruit, and half of an oat and raisin bar that she’d been saving since Hiroshima. She wasn’t much of a huntress and had no appetite for flesh even if she was, and the harsh winter had left the hills bereft of vegetation. But she was almost there, and needn’t worry too much. After she’d bested the stranger, she would demand access to the last star’s pantry. Put your hands up and give me all your vegetables.
She found her mind slipping laterally to Parr, who would’ve made his appearance on the New Year’s show by now, and would probably be feeling pretty smug about her extended absence. Michelle couldn’t help but laugh to herself, shaking her head as she gathered her belongings to go on. When she had come to Japan in the first place, she had justified it with vague links to the Prodigy. She hoped to find in the words and the teachings of the kaiju something to help her overcome what had always been lacking. Now, she trounced through a forest on an island in the middle of the ocean to do the same with a man she’d never even met. The chances of finding what she searched for seemed negligible. The kaiju had tried to warn her. The handsome man, too, in his own peculiar way. But of course, she hadn’t listened.
The only link between her actions over the past two weeks and Mike Parr were, of course, that she was running and hiding.
The end of her journey was near, and so naturally her mind began to wander aimlessly beyond it. Her next journey was already chosen for her, and once more she lamented the corner that Mike Parr had backed her into. He had done more than stop her momentum. He had changed the manner in which she was perceived by the company: by management, by the other wrestlers, and by the fans. Six months ago - hell: three months ago - she had been a wildfire. Even after the attack, when the hunt was in its infancy and they believed she would find her assailant, she was a dangerous beast that they wouldn’t dare approach. The attack had made her vengeful, but the reveal had made her sympathetic. She cursed Parr for that more than anything else.
He had tied her hands behind her back and put a gag on her. Any response of the physical or verbal variety would be laughed off by Parr and reasoned out by anyone watching who still had full control of their faculties. Reprisals with her fists would be by their very nature petty. Any accusation of intellectual superiority would appear deeply flawed and paper-thin. He had cut her off from her usual weapons, and so she would need to think again before any action could be taken. She smiled to herself. Something had been fermenting in the back of her mind since Tokyo, and the bare bones of a plan were beginning to come together. There were other weapons available to her.
That was equally true in the clearing in Tsushima, where Michelle had climbed up to the waterfall. She was pleased to find that there was a large hole in the cliff face, masked by the tumbling water, and when she attempted to feel around upon the rock her arm went straight through it. She took a deep breath and stepped through the waterfall and onto a man-made ledge behind it. The space was narrow, and she had to move sidewards-on to progress deeper into it. When she reached the far end, she looked upwards and smiled at the hole far above. There were footholds in the wall leading up to it, and either side of the opening were torches lighting the way...
Finally, she thought. Some luck.
And then, from the deep, she heard the rumbling of distant mechanisms, and suddenly her cavern began to grow darker. When she looked upwards, she saw that the opening was beginning to close. She tried to climb up quickly, but found the going treacherous, footholds crumbling from the wall as soon as she applied any weight. When Michelle turned back towards the waterfall, she was horrified to find that that too was being closed off from her by some mystery captor.
When the water began to leak in through a hole high above her, she had half a mind to accept her fate. It was her own fault. She had marched half the way across the world to stumble around on an island that meant nothing to her, searching for a man that couldn’t possibly tell her what she wanted to know. All to evade a slight that she should have seen coming, or at least avenged months ago. The water began to fill up around her ankles, and - not quite yet fully willing to accept the end that had seemingly been ordained - began desperately to claw at the walls around her. She attempted to place her back against one wall (throwing her rucksack down beside her) and climb up with her hands and feet on the other. Scuttling like a crab, she managed to get half-way up before the surface caught up with her. She let go of her grip and began to tread water, reaching over for her floating rucksack and regarding the small hole from which her grave filled. She opened the bag and reached around her for anything that could save her, and found her hands clasped around something cold and metal.
She produced the gold amulet that had been given to her back in Azamo Bay, a gift from the other gaijin on the island. Her eyes were now level with the opening, seemingly carved into the chamber and being fed from somewhere else. Instinctively, she placed the long, thin amulet into the hole, and heard a gentle click as it reached the end.
The water stopped.
She closed her eyes.
A few seconds later, the slow rumbling of mechanics somewhere in the hillside reached her ears once more.
When she opened her eyes, the roof was beginning to open above her. She threw her rucksack onto her back and collected her floating bokken before finding a foothold just below the level of the water. With great relief she found it sturdy, as if it had been reinforced whilst the lower ones were left to rot. With aching body and aching mind, she pushed herself upwards, clambering out of the opening and onto the snow of the hillside above.
For a moment, she lay face down in the snow, her breathing haggard, ribcage slowly expanding and deflating into the snow beneath her. With her right hand she gripped a handful of the powder, compacting it into a tight ball and then letting it go with the next exhale. Why the fuck was she here?
Eventually, and with great difficulty, she rolled over onto her back, throwing her sodden wet rucksack to one side and sitting up to regard the hillside. If there was one comfort to her, it was that things couldn’t possibly get any worse.
She opened her eyes to find a snow leopard a few metres in front of her. It was sitting back on its hind legs, regarding her with large, bright eyes, the effect from which seemed only amplified when their light was reflected off the snow. She placed her hands down either side of her, sitting up straight and inching backwards towards the hole from which she’d come. She could hear the water trickling out of the chamber and into the stream below, and carefully looked back at the falling surface level. She considered climbing back into it, but then - with a rumbling stomach and a bearing of its teeth - the leopard stood up onto its four paws and began to pad through the snow. Towards her.
Michelle stared into the bold eyes of the animal as it brought its head closer towards her. She kept her own eyes wedged open, unwilling to even blink, transfixed and hypnotised by the approaching creature. Eventually, when its nose was only centimetres from her’s, it sniffed, its nostrils flaring as the beast took in her scent. It repeated this a total of four times before walking in a circle around her, and slowly treading its way through the snow, back into the forest.
The ascent up the rest of the hillside was long and tedious and plagued by a blizzard that was only gradually relenting (if it was at all). She was not dressed for such an ascent, and with each step the snow encroached further up her legs, soaking her through and giving her an ever present shiver.
”You have heard it, but you have not listened.”
The kaiju’s words followed her up the hill, ringing out in her ears even above the whistling blizzard.
”Even now, when a worthwhile opponent demands you challenge him, demands you regain honour, you turn away and come to my door. And still you look onwards, to Tsushima, and to your familiar stranger.”
She had forgotten what it was to be warm, and the hot springs - perhaps only twelve hours in her past - were now a distant memory. At two (or was it three?) points she had to stop to rest. Or at least to breathe.
“You want to stand there and tell me you feel like you’re in Snowmantashi’s shadow? That’s fine, I get that. Go and see him. Sort your shit out with him, but... if you really want to see what you’re made of? Go to the island. Get your answers.”
As Toner joined the chorus, she did her best to hide from the blizzard beneath the branches of a tree or an overhanging rock, but it was no use. The storm had hunted her down, and now it was extracting its toll.
And always:
”You see there’s somethin’ you’ve gotta remember about the kaiju, Dreamer: He can teach you to climb mountains, but not the mountain you want to climb.”
When the peak was finally within reach, each step left her knee-deep within the snow. The blizzard seemed to be somewhat lessening. It was only a final, insignificant pity, taken as she took the final steps towards the setting that - she felt certain - must surely be her eventual destination. In front of her, rearing up suddenly and vividly against a sea of white, a thick circle of cherry blossom trees stood. As she reached their edge, she found that she had walked directly to a narrow opening in their perimeter, and carved into the snow were a half-dozen steps leading down to a clearing within the trees. Inside, there was no snow. Before her was a large, near circular, frozen-over lake, perhaps thirty or forty metres in diameter, and around that a thin tract of land covered in a thin frost blossomed with yellow and blue and white flowers.
Standing at the far edge of the lake, next to a smouldering fire, was a man: facing her, a knowing but unfamiliar expression on his face.
She took off her rucksack and tentatively stepped onto the frozen lake. It felt firm and, suddenly more assured of herself, she began to walk towards the stranger. | .
ACT IV: FINALE
& EPILOGUE
22.01.2021
. |
iv. Act Four: "The Star and the Snow" (+ Epilogue: "Storm's End" / Credits) (January 3rd, 2921).
December 14th, 2020.
Kathy’s Coffee House. Toronto, Ontario. Canada.
She sat in the unremarkable coffee shop, chosen only for its proximity to the bus station, and idly played with a sachet of sugar. She tore one end and allowed the white powder to fall into her coffee cup, stirring it in and thinking about the long journey she had ahead of her. The bus down to Seattle would take two and a half days, and that was only the first stage. She’d done longer and less comfortable before, she thought, and undoubtedly would do again. She scratched her wrists awkwardly and wondered if enough time had elapsed since her last cigarette to justify another.
In front of her, Gerald sat back comfortably in his chair, a somewhat contented look on his face. He had taken the loss at Mile High as badly as her, for sure, but having the X Division Championship around his waist was seemingly enough to ensure a speedy recovery from the disappointment. In front of him sat a half-drunk cup of coffee and a half-eaten sandwich, discarded for now as he eyed her up carefully from across the table.
“Japan?” he said, curiously. She nodded her head, but he remained silent. He must have believed the inference to be obvious, and waited for Michelle to explain.
“The Blackbird isn’t booking me on either of the vacation shows,” she started, looking out of the window at a bus pulling up to the terminal. Her own was only an hour away, and she needed to stock up on cigarettes and whiskey before the time came to nestle into a corner of the vehicle. She tapped on the tabletop with idle fingers, struggling to keep still under Gerald’s rather passive gaze. “He says I need the time off… I don’t know, maybe he’s right… But I can’t stay around here and watch Parr justify this. What would be the point? I have to do something. Snowmantashi said he’d train with me. Or train me. I don’t know. His English isn’t great. And Toner… he said something too. But I don’t know. He was speaking in riddles.”
For a moment, Gerald eyed her up carefully, wondering if perhaps she'd finally been pushed over the edge. She'd been teetering upon it for quite a while, and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't foreseen this. He sipped his lukewarm coffee and stared out of the window, momentarily unable to meet her gaze.
“This is so unlike you. In the time we’ve known each other, the Michelle I knew wouldn’t…”
He paused, holding back his words.
“Wouldn’t what?” Michelle questioned.
“Wouldn’t run away,” Gerald said hesitantly.
Michelle’s eyes grew in size, her face becoming a whiter shade of pale. Her distaste was plain. She didn't need to say a thing. Gerald picked up the slack.
“The Michelle I knew would kick the door down and face her problems head on. The tenacity at which you operate is truly fearsome… admirable, even. But all that… all that seems to be gone. What happened?” Gerald questioned, staring anywhere but into Michelle’s eyes, not quite believing the words that just fell out of his mouth.
She gave up trying to explain. It felt useless. A few moments passed and there was nothing but silence.
“If you have to go, then go. But promise me this. You check in from time to time. Give me some updates. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried. I can see this is something you want to do - hell, something you have to do,” he said after a long sigh.
He drained his coffee as if he had another pressing engagement and wanted to get seeing to it. Michelle stared at her own, and then once more at the bus station. She didn’t want to stay, that much was plain: but she didn’t exactly want to leave either. She lamented the lack of other options available to her. Grayson was already standing, looming over her as if he was preparing for a hug. Michelle offered him a fist bump, which he reciprocated before collecting his jacket.
“When do you leave?” he asked.
“Now,” she replied, without thought.
Gerald just went on smiling. It was as if he already understood.
~_~_~_~
January 2nd, 2021.
凍った湖 対馬 長 崎県
THE FROZEN LAKE, TSUSHIMA. Nagasaki, Japan.
She stood a few metres away from him, a small but healthy fire smouldering despite the snow between them. He was partially masked by thick plumes of smoke being sent forth into the evening’s air, though she could see a wry, knowing smile even through this mask. He was older than she was, just barely, but experience and wisdom seemed to hang heavily around his eyes, whereas upon her own visage was only fatigue and doubt. Her breathing was laboured, and still - in spite of the fermenting adrenaline - she shivered against the cold.
Above the trees that encircled the two of them and the frozen lake, she could see that the blizzard still whirled around them. Within the trees, though, no snowflakes fell, and only a thin layer of frost covered the grass next to the lake. She was standing on the frozen ice, which was sturdy underfoot, whilst he stood firm on its lip, eyes fixed upon her and only her, seemingly unaffected by both the cold and the tension of the encounter.
Slowly, he reached down to his side and picked up a bag. He flung it over to Michelle. It landed with a thud on the ice at her feet, the sneakers upon which were frozen and sodden through. She hadn’t felt her toes in days. When she opened the bag she found three objects: a pair of snow boots and a thick jacket with faux-fur lining.
“You are ill-prepared,” the man said.
When she had discarded her old shoes and put on her snow boots, she placed her own rucksack to one side, along with the bokken. She wasn’t ready, but she didn’t feel she ever really would be.
“The Last Star in the Sky… You’ve been expecting me?” she asked, shuffling from side to side on the ice, checking the tread and the weight of her new boots. Her question was genuine. The man remained passive and unmoving. He simply smiled, and stood by the fire.
“Someone. I had been expecting someone.”
He lifts his hand up to quell any response. He looked like he was disappointed with what he had been presented with. The only sounds that could break through the silence was a slight soft rustling of wind and the crackling of the fire. The somewhat glum expression on his face changed to a wry smile.
“I should say… I was expecting someone. That changed.”
The man kept his gaze fixed on her and stepped forward, closer towards her. The fire nearby illuminated him. His cold steel-like eyes didn’t move as he stared a hole through her. He wore an undaunted expression as he stopped a short distance from her. Despite this, his words didn’t seem to imply any form of hostility.
“I figured out it was you… but I’ll admit that, at first, when Danny Toner told me he was sending someone my way… I never expected it to be you: Michelle von Horrowitz. I never expected that he’d actually find someone when I asked. Other than that, a friend, you might know him, helped me understand that it would be you standing across from me today. If I’m honest with you.. I don’t quite understand why you decided to bring yourself here. I guess you should excuse my ignorance but did you expect it to be myself standing across from you?”
“I…”
She started, valiantly she thought, but immediately trailed off. Up until this moment, she had framed all of her intentions and aspirations through her own eyes. They were her motivations, and she had still felt she retained her agency even through the trials that nature and man had both thrown up in front of her. But now? Standing across from the Last Star in the Sky, watching the fire smoulder and the man reciprocate, she had second thoughts. She was here, undeniably, because the handsome man had provided her with a ready-made exit strategy.
“Your friend, the American… he seems to have taken a liking to me. In fact, I can’t really shake him, no matter how hard I try. When I’m having a smoke during a show, he’s having a smoke during a show. When I’m shutting out the world, or at least the city, he’s celebrating his tepid victories in my general proximity. I told him about Snowmantashi, and that I planned to see him in Tokyo. Near Tokyo, I should say. He suggested I come to you whilst I’m here. He said…”
Another pause. She felt ridiculous telling him this. This was the first time that she had ever met The Faded Star, and admitting to him what she wished to find - what only a very small part of her expected to find - suddenly seemed ridiculous.
“He said that you would have answers for me. Well, at least more so than Snowmantashi would.”
There’s a slight, snide chuckle from the man.
“All of this...just on the word of Danny Toner? I know he’s good… but that good? He could have sold you a lie for all you know. What do I have to do with anything? What answers were you searching for?”
She looked up at the sky, and the dark clouds - those responsible for flinging the blizzard onto the unsuspecting island - were beginning to roll away. The night’s stars were revealed, and she found herself staring at the brightest of them. It danced heel and toe and, just for a moment, she was caught up in its elegant movements and the cold left her body.
“I think I knew at one point, or at least I thought I did, but…”
A deep sigh. He continued to stare at her, unrelenting but not unkind.
“Now? I don’t know. If I knew what it was that was missing back in America, both in the ring and outside of it, it wouldn’t be difficult to find. I wouldn’t need to traipse across oceans and continents in futile hunt. All I know is that something is missing. A will for something other than chaos, I suppose. I think Toner saw it too. Gerald definitely did. I guess, in a way, I was hoping that he knew what it was, and that’s why he sent me here. But… I know how ridiculous that sounds. I guess he had to have known something, or he would have never mentioned Tsushima to me at all.”
He shook his head and chuckled again. The derision pained her heart.
“Do you know something that I don’t?”
He cocked an eyebrow and maintained his smile, as if to say: there are many things I know that you don’t.
“This entire time… your entire journey to get here and you haven’t as much as contemplated Danny Toner’s motive in sending you here? How insular are you? I knew you were egotistical. I just didn’t think you were also stupid.”
Usually, she would have turned up her nose at the insult, and had a half-dozen retorts ready to go. But, remembering how she’d arrived at the lake, shoes and trousers soaked through, shivering and pathetic... any allegation of stupidity would have to be upheld. She shuffled uncomfortably, shifting her weight from her left foot to her right and then back again to her left.
“Danny Toner set this entire thing up for his own enjoyment and for his own internal reasons. You might not have considered the bigger picture but… I have. That, right now, is what separates you and I.”
The bigger picture. Little did he know how much of this she had been considering. Of course, Toner’s thinly-veiled hints as to who she would find upon the Island of Tsushima had been deciphered by the young woman towards the start of her journey. And she knew a little about The Faded Star’s history. She was aware of his world championship reigns. Her first match for the FWA had been at Back in Business 2017, and Rondo had also been on the card, competing with Chris Kennedy, Stu St. Clair, and Cyrus Truth in the world championship unification tournament. Those four names held a reverence as magnitudinous as any other's in this industry’s recent history. There weren’t many things that this man hadn’t done, and most of that list of accomplishments was a direct copy of her professional bucket list.
But she was aware of his less recent history, too. She knew of his time at the foot of the card, back before she had walked on American soil. His inability to break through a glass ceiling that he himself had constructed. His obvious talent, his ambition, and the respect he was slowly earning from those above him on the depth chart. This was the time that she was most interested in. This, she felt somewhat confident, must have been why the handsome man had sent her to Tsushima.
“I don’t doubt that Toner had his own ends. I won’t attempt to work out what they are. I have neither the inclination nor the energy. But I do not believe Toner sent me on a wild goose chase with no growth in mind for the huntress. He says that you can help me. And for some reason I believe him, regardless of your personal appraisal of the situation.”
He stepped closer to the fire, resting his gloved hands a few centimetres above their warmth. Michelle did not feel that she had done enough to dispel his accusations of intellectual deficiency, but half-finished ideas and stunted logic was all that she had left at her disposal.
“I don’t doubt that he wanted to help you. I don’t doubt that I can help you. You haven’t considered that you’re here to help me, though.”
She couldn’t begin to guess his meaning. She gave up on trying to do so before he picked up the thread.
“I think Danny sent you because he thinks you’re good enough to coax me back to the FWA. I guess that’s a compliment? Or… does it insult you?”
She thought carefully about his words as he again stepped away from the fire, continuing to regard her in a deliberate and uncertain fashion.
“Nobody wants to be a pawn, tulip. But it depends on the end, and whether it justifies the means. You feel certain I was sent to coax you back? I could just as easily be here to warn you to stay away…”
He simply smiled. Her words disappeared in the wind before they even reached him.
“Perhaps you should reevaluate the situation.”
In truth, she already had. The solitude had left her with only her own thoughts for company, and as they usually did they had gradually but consistently conspired to drag her down. The sense of adventure had dissipated a while ago, and along with it any hopes of success. She almost felt as though she was standing next to herself, looking on at the forlorn and dejected figure that said the words but didn’t really feel them. Her posture was all wrong, her body language that of a defeated woman.
She still intended to fight, but felt the writing was already on the wall.
He tutted at her.
“For everything you’ve just been through… you’re going to cut a defeated figure just like that? Toner may have sent you for an alternative reason… but you’re here for something regardless. I don’t know if I am what you’re looking for - but I will fight you. Straighten up and act like you’ve got something to prove.”
She narrowed her eyes. She might’ve overlooked his insults, but the man’s sanctimony would not go unchecked.
”I don't have anything to prove to y - -”
“I don’t need to go off of Toner’s word to know your talent,” he interjected, beginning to circle her at a wide radius, stepping onto the frozen ice with poise and guile. “We’re already both aware of each other’s abilities and achievements. I’m smart enough to have gone back and watched everything you’ve been involved in recently. It’s the first thing I did when I realised it was you. I’ve got the measure of you. Do you think you have the measure of me with your stupid toy sword?”
Standing a few metres away from The Faded Star, Michelle slowly lowered herself into her favoured kokutsu dachi stance, her face calm and passive. She tried to remember the words of her old master, back when she was a child, but none of her memories of him or his words were even slightly reassuring.
"You stand as if you're ready to fight," her old master had said, eighteen years ago when she had been nothing more than a girl. She had still lived in Rotterdam at the time, and although other trainees (all male) busied themselves with drills, she felt alone in the gymnasium. "But I know that you're not. I don't even have to look at you to sense it."
I am ready, she told him... she told herself. Even her internal monologue faltered in its delivery. I have to be.
They stood, metres apart, and remained for a moment silent and motionless. Snow still fell outside the clearing, but within it the only thing that moved was the occasional pink leaf being blown from the trees and coming to rest upon the frozen surface. The wind had picked up, and now it blew the flames of The Faded Star’s small fire this way and that, as if forcing them into some manic and frantic dance. She took a deep breath, still in her stance, as he began once more to circle her. He took up a position in the centre of the lake, as if for some reason he was purposefully putting distance between himself and the shore.
“If you came here to fight… when are you going to start doing it?”
He was trying to goad her, and it worked. She lunged towards him, and The Last Star sidestepped her oncoming. He tagged her with a light kick to her side, perhaps simply letting her know that he was there, that he had her number. She responded with an attempt at a high heel kick, but he evaded it and responded with a chop. Telegraphing it at the last moment, Michelle rolled through, and when she stood up once more on the ice she noticed that she had was next to her discarded sword. Unhappy at his scorn, and with a firm, vivid memory of the tactics she had employed to see off the woman in the kimono, she clenched a hand around its hilt and held it in front of her.
“Or maybe you’re in denial… running away from something… someone? Is that why you embarked on a near-suicide mission just to get thrown around by me?”
Parr. He must have meant Parr. For all his abstraction, his geographical remoteness and his general aloof nature, it appeared that The Faded Star was at least somewhat connected to the zeitgeist. She didn’t know what his game was. Perhaps he knew of her confirmed flaws: her lack of focus, her poor discipline. Perhaps The Ghost of Mike Parr had come to the feast once again, destined to draw her eye and open her up for her opponent. She shunned the ghoul from her mind and deftly struck out with her bokken at Rondo, first towards his head, and then in an attempt to clear out his legs. He ducked the first and jumped the second, and when he landed he mule kicked the sword from her hands. She watched on as it skidded across the ice, coming to a rest at its centre point.
Without thinking, she lunged again at The Last Star, driving forward for a double leg takedown. Perennially one step ahead, he shifted to one side, picked her wrist, and flipped her onto her back once more. He was on her in a flash, or was trying to be, again taking her by the wrist and attempting to apply some form of arm bar. Sensing the danger, she drove up to her feet and rolled through, releasing the pressure. She managed to grab him by the ankle, but immediately he sprung into the air for an enziguri. He clocked her on the side of the head and sent her reeling once more.
She managed to maintain a vertical base, but her face stung from both the cold and the kick. The bokken was still out of reach, and when she looked up at The Faded Star she remarked on his passivity. He had not yet broken a sweat.
“Mike Parr is always in my mind. How could he not be. But I am here to face you, and I will not allow you to distract me with that name.”
A flash of near-confusion crossed The Faded Star’s face, and Michelle took the opportunity to charge her opponent. Her back elbow attempt was lazy and obvious, though, and Rondo took her by her base in a double leg takedown. Her back slammed against the hard ice once more. To add insult to injury, he gave her a swift slap, and then backed away, allowing the young woman to regain her vertical base.
“Mike Parr? I wasn’t talking about him. I was talking about losing to Bell Connelly. Didn’t she beat you and you haven’t bothered to do anything about it since? You’re all concerned with Parr... when really it’s Bell Connelly you should be thinking about. I think I’m starting to realise what it is you’re lacking. The mindset. I don’t know how your mind works but it’s not the right way. Not if you want to be satisfied with what you’re doing. The dream you’re chasing, dreamer.”
It was only now, with Rondo circling at a safe distance in front of her, that she had even begun to contemplate Bell Connelly in anything more than a passing fashion. It was true that her focus has been away from her former contemporary. Their paths had diverged a long time ago, and she had since done her best to eradicate the remnants of that match from her memory. When flashes of it slipped through the gaps, it brought her shame. More shame than when she thought about Gerald, and their defeat at the hands of Devil Golden and the ridiculously named Randy Ramon. More, even, than she experienced when reflecting upon Mike Parr, his loyal goons, and his trusty lead pipe. For Bell Connelly was the one that she had gone out to find. The others - Ramon, Golden, Parr - they had come to her door. They could see the streak that she was on, the fire that was left in her wake. Parr had sought her out, and the other two had merely benefited from a half-baked management initiative. A stronger tag division means a stronger FWA, or so said the slogan.
But Bell? It had been almost a year. Months of lengthy diatribes, of misdirected anger, of flailing in the wind. All of it culminated at Mile High, when Connelly had been coaxed back into the ring for a final show-down with an old acquaintance. Michelle wanted her scalp. At the end of the day, it was that simple. She could try to disguise this base desire with some lengthy facade about kinship, about shared experience, and about failed expectations. But in truth, she just wanted to beat her, before her mind had deteriorated to the point where that was either impossible or irrelevant.
Standing on the ice, watching carefully as The Last Star in the Sky continued to circle her, coming to an eventual rest by the fire at the lip of the ice. He warmed his hands again on its flames, keeping his eye on Michelle reproachfully as she glanced longingly towards her bokken.
Whilst Rondo warmed himself, she found herself taken back to Mile High, and to the memory from that night that she had replayed more since any other. It wasn’t the match. Either of them. Instead, it had been after the show, long after she’d lost her second contest of the evening. She was near the fire exit, the cold Toronto air whipping around her as she huddled for warmth beneath the flimsy material of her hoodie. Otherwise she was still in her ring gear, and the short blonde hairs on her legs were standing to attention against the cruel Winter cold. She had her hands stuffed into her front pocket and a cigarette hung lazily between her lips. She was thirty and she felt old. This had been an increasing and nagging sensation, and one that had crept up on her like a thief in the night over the last few years, intent on relieving her of her perception of youth. The aches from the matches riddled her body, both inside and outside. Her left wrist was dislocated. Her nose was broken. She had a blunt and throbbing pain near her calf that suggested some sort of ligament damage. All in all, she was fucked. There was no simpler way to put it.
And the physical toils of the match were nothing when weighed up in earnest against the mental toll. She had no words left for it. Bell had… she’d crushed her. And she’d done it at Michelle’s own request. How could she utter another word about Connelly in the ring, on that show, next week or any other week, when she had just been dealt such a decisive and humiliating defeat? She simply could not, if she intended to keep even a shred of integrity. Instead, she’d have to simply grimace and bear it (for a grin would be impossible), and bide her time until an opportunity for vengeance - or at least annulment - finally arose.
Worse still, sitting on the kerb near the fire exit of the arena in Toronto, was watching on as a limousine pulled up to the main entrance of the building across the street. The young woman stubbed her cigarette out and stared at the assembling fans and media. She rolled her eyes at the extravagance. Typically, Bell Connelly appeared from the front door, a bodyguard on each of her sides. She didn’t look like she had just wrestled a match. She was smiling and waving as the journalists took her picture and invited her to say a few words. She politely declined, and climbed into her car after signing a handful of autographs. The limousine slowly pulled away, and the contented fans nodded their heads in approval of Bell Connelly’s gratitude.
Her head started hurting in that moment and hadn’t really stopped since.
Rondo’s strong and assertive attacks had brought this headache on again, and she slowly realised that she was still lying on the ice, staring up at the stars. With a concerted effort, she pushed her way to her feet, doing her utmost to overcome the physical and mental bruises that threatened to overcome her.
She felt a change in tactic was necessary.
“You have questioned me,” she began, choosing her words carefully. “But I fear your eyes would benefit from looking inwards. You tell me that I am running away… that my mindset is not as it should be… you even ask me why I am here. Well… I could level any of these points in your direction.”
He blinked at her, and for a moment the smile escaped his face.
“The old cliche… is he looking up at the same sky as I? The same moon? The same stars? I have been guilty of this trope myself, and more recently than I’d care to admit. But the sky is different from what it once was. The Last Star has Faded to nothing, and now the canvas is empty. And I find you here: in the middle of the sea, with no indication of worthwhile motivation. Of any motivation. And you ask me why I am here?”
She stopped short of scoffing, but this was carried through her tone. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
“The Star has died, and it has come here to smoulder away into dust. Into nothing. At least that’s how I see it. Am I wrong, my tulip?”
He took a moment to gather his thoughts. He knew why he was there, but he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to admit it just yet. It certainly wasn’t something that was relevant to a discussion with Michelle von Horrowitz.
“I’m here because I expected a fight. It was what Toner promised. I suppose I haven’t had one in a while. I suppose I’m just some pawn in what grand scheme he has cooked up.”
No doubt his lost smile was noticed, but he didn’t let her open up the crack in his guard any further. She felt she had to capitalize, and so pressed him on the point.
“You speak of Toner, and his own agenda, and how this reflects on me. But the handsome man does not strike me as the sort to chase after his tail. If he is trying to coax you, it is because he believes that you can be coaxed.”
The pause seemed to stretch on a little too long to be natural, and Michelle felt perhaps she had struck a chord. Eventually, though, The Faded Star simply let out a laugh.
“Maybe so. Danny Toner can believe whatever he wants, Michelle. I told him to send anyone. You can try to make his belief a reality if you so wish.”
She felt he was shrugging her off, and didn’t appreciate the lack of candour. But still, she circled him at a safe distance.
“And why me?” The question was blunt and sudden, and it seemed to catch The Faded Star unaware. “You asked me why Toner sent me here, but I feel you are probably in a better position to answer that than I…”
The wind howled. It was beginning to pick up again. She didn’t want to be fighting in a blizzard. But the man seemed content to wait, and to talk. At least for now.
“Like I had said. He rates you highly. He thinks you can give me a match. So far… I can’t say I see it. I’m just really disappointed. I know you’ve gone through some form of hell to get here but I guess I expected a bit more…”
He could see she was ready to respond with words cocked like bullets in a revolver… but he cut her off.
“I’m not here to have a constant verbal back and forth. If you want answers, you will get them. But the questions you ask of me have answers that mean nothing to you. Danny Toner knows us both well. If you are willing to believe his sincerity… and willing to come all this way… then you will find the answers you want. I’m sure of that. It’s not about me teaching you anything. It’s the lesson you, personally, learn. I’ve done everything I’ve set out to achieve. You want to be a force in the FWA? Then you’re throwing down with someone who knows how to do that. The right way. “
He cocked an eyebrow, as if in consternation.
”But you question my personal motivation? My personal motivation in coming here is curiosity.”
They retained a healthy distance, and neither combatant seemed in a particular rush to engage the other. Michelle enjoyed the diatribe. She seemed almost proud of herself for eliciting it. She smiled to herself, one eye on Rondo and the other on the discarded bokken, a handful of meters away.
"Curiosity?" she began, almost snarling the word, her delivery dripping with derision. "That is not what I call this. This is…"
She knew exactly what she wanted to say, and paused only for a moment before committing to it.
"This is a man who was curious. A long time ago, maybe. But now? He is jaded. Perhaps even cynical. Most importantly: he is hiding. I guess there's some logic in Toner sending me here after all. He knew my motives, even if he couldn't claim to know my mind. At least not all of it. But he knew that I was hiding, and I imagine he thought we had this in common."
She hard circled to such a point where the bokken was within reach, and her eyes again flickered towards it.
"I know you wonder whether you still possess what drove you all those years ago. And perhaps your friend, the handsome man… perhaps he wonders this too. This, I would reason, was why he sent me. The curiosity is only his."
He was taken aback for a slight moment. She was right. Michelle von Horrowitz wasn’t here to find the answer to that question. He pondered on it for a brief second. He worried that he had perhaps shown a sign of weakness. Her words were more resolute than before. It was now he who was unsure.
“What is it you’re trying to tell me, exactly?”
She only returned a wry smile.
"I guess there's nothing really left to say."
The pair waited for a moment, metres away, silently weighing up each other’s guard. The snow was gathering once again, as if the blizzard had only paused for a moment’s breath and was ready to continue its assault. Snowflakes landed upon her face. Once more, she lowered herself into her favoured stance, and then, for the final time, they began.
She feigned a forearm and was surprised to see The Faded Star buy it. He threw a hasty block in its general direction, but already Michelle had maneuvered into a low spin kick. Rondo was caught by surprise and stumbled backwards, which was about all the invitation Michelle needed. She lunged at him with a pair of forearms, and then an inelegant headbutt that sent him reeling backwards. She took a deep breath, the cold and the exertion of the battle taking their toll on her lungs. Her whole body ached. She could attribute each individual bump and bruise to its artist: Bell, Parr, the New Breed, the woman in the kimono… and now The Faded Star. Mind over matter. She focussed her energy, and then she lunged…
Rondo ducked the wild lariat, seamlessly floating behind into a rear waist lock. The European threw a pair of elbows at his temple, shaking her opponent, but he managed to maintain his grip. With a battle cry that seemed to whistle through the nearby trees and ride upon the wind, he threw her overhead with a German Suplex… only for MvH to rotate and land on her feet. She caught her balance on the ice, resting upon her haunches, and noticed that her bokken was within reach. Without thought, her fingers grasped its hilt, and she turned to face Rondo with a flash of rage in her eyes.
For his part, The Faded Star did not seem fazed by the development. Instead, he welcomed her new tactic, adopting a defensive stance and inviting her onwards. Her first two blows were wild and wayward, and Rondo was able to evade them. He couldn’t get close enough to mount any offense of his own, though, and when he tried to move in for a double leg take down she lashed out at his side. He recoiled, and before he knew it she had swept his legs from beneath him. He landed with a thud on his back, and for a moment he was taken by the night’s sky. The stars were dull tonight, but the moon was round and full and bright. He smiled at it and it smiled back, until the moment was ruined by his oncoming visitor. She lifted the bokken high above her head and leapt into the air, attempting to bring it crashing down onto Rondo. In her zeal, she damn-near impaled the man, only for The Faded Star to roll out of the way with a moment to spare. The bokken was driven through the frozen surface of the lake, and when she tried to unsheath it once more from the ice she found it lodged in place.
Perhaps she lingered too long with her fingers upon the hilt, because upon abandoning the weapon she turned into three stiff kicks to the abdomen. The third was vicious enough to drop her to her knees, and she attempted to place her hands on the ice for support, sucking at oxygen that wasn’t plentiful enough to sustain her. Rondo gave her no respite, clocking her beneath the jaw with a European uppercut, driving her back up to her feet. She saw the moon pass by, and then she saw him upon her in a flash. The RKO drove her chest down onto the ice, driving the wind out it and leaving her gasping for air. The last thing she saw with her own eyes was a thin crack begin to develop around the point at which her bokken still protruded from the ice.
The image came blurry. The snowflakes expanded in radius until they blocked all else from view. Everything was white, and was nothing.
And then she saw herself from above, lying face down on the ice. Rondo was at her side, down to one knee, himself relieved for the welcome respite. The wooden sword - her toy sword - emerged from the ice, as if it were the stuff of Arthurian legend. Higher she flew, until the picture grew more remote and her own discarded body was a mere black spec upon a sea of white snow.
And further she floated, until she beheld the world and everything in it.
It turned despite her better judgement.
And when she was in position, delicately poised above the place in which she felt she was meant to be, she finally began to descend once more.
~_~_~_~
~_~_~_~
The first deep breath was almost painful. She sucked the cold right into her lungs alongside the oxygen. Her eyes shot open as if a syringe full of adrenaline had been driven through her ribcage. The world was real and bright and vivid once again, though she did not understand what it was or, more pertinently, where she was. Her hands tried to grip at her sides but found only ice, upon which her fingers could get no purchase. She fought to sit up, and the victory was hard won.
When she saw the silhouette of the man in front of her, she was burdened with awareness once again. The memory of the last two weeks became all too real for her, and she winced at her own cowardice. As she fought to her feet, she had to stifle a laugh. It was almost comical. The blizzard was back and worse than ever. She stood upon a frozen lake, half-way up a hill, on an island, in the middle of nowhere. For no discernable purpose. And where was Parr? She knew, even if her body had never left the hillside. More importantly, she knew that his mind was upon her, that his gaze was turned on her and that he was intent on her doom. She could not say the same in reverse. She was here and not there, after all.
It was then that she resolved to go back. As soon as she could.
With this in mind, Michelle lunged once more at Rondo, but stopped short with a feigned roundhouse kick. Rondo didn’t buy into it, and fired back with an overhand chop, following up with a pair of stiff forearms. The European was rocked backwards, losing balance, stumbling to one knee, and in a flash The Faded Star was on her. He rained down a series of hard strikes, culminating in a pair of vicious headbutts that sent her dizzy. She fell down onto her hands and knees, and Rondo lifted his boot into her ribs, sending her sprawling onto her back.
“You can dress it up however you want,” he said, slowly and deliberately. He was casually lumbering in her direction, his breathing laboured, a slight limp developing as he went. “But you’re here for a fight. For a scalp. I can see it in the way you conduct yourself.”
Michelle rolled onto her front and lifted her head into the man’s direction. Onwards he came, solemn and resolute.
“There is nothing wrong with that. But you are not an honest person.”
When he was within a metre of her, he began to position himself for his next attack… but Michelle maneuvered herself in a flash, and dropped him face first onto the ice with a Drop Toe Hold. Rondo reached out before him and grabbed anything he could to block his fall, resulting in his hands grasping the bokken, jamming it further into the ice and spreading the crack at its base. Michelle paid it no heed, hoisting the man up and pulling him close by the wrist. With a roar of exertion, she lifted him into a fireman’s carry, before dropping the back of his head onto the ice with a Death Valley Driver.
Rondo lay on his back, involuntarily gazing at the stars. Beneath him, he felt the pressure points in the ice shift and breach equilibrium.
A metre away, Michelle was on one knee, staring past the hilt of her bokken, the man’s prone body overlooked by the cherry blossom and the blizzard. She felt the end was near.
“You yield?” she asked. With great difficulty, she pushed her way back onto her feet and took a step towards Rondo. The surface of the lake felt treacherous beneath her boots.
He had rolled onto his front, and then climbed onto a knee. He met her gaze, and despite his predicament he afforded himself a smile.
“No.”
Without another word, he reached out for the bokken, and as if its hilt were a lever he pulled it towards him. The crack in the surface worsened into a chasm, and then around it the ice began to fragment. Michelle, standing right above the quake’s epicentre, struggled for balance. She stared at Rondo, a frantic and wild look in her eyes, let out a cry for help, and then disappeared into the lake.
As the water began to fill her lungs, she found - for the first time in her life - that it was indeed possible to truly think of nothing.
|
2nd January, 2021.
対馬 長崎 日本
TSUSHIMA. Nagasaki, Japan.
Michelle shivered and stared down at the broken ice, huddling for warmth beneath the blankets that had been left upon her person. The fire roared beside her, built high and strong before he had taken his leave. She wasn’t awake when he had done so. She had lost consciousness in the water, probably through the shock. But it didn’t take a detective to work out what had happened. The fish hadn’t saved her. He must have gone in for her, or plucked her out with his big, manly arms. She winced at the thought of The Faded Star as her saviour. But that must have been the truth of it. When she’d awoken after an undetermined and indeterminable amount of time, she was face down in the snow, breathing space carved beside her, heavy blankets laid upon her body. The blizzard had doubled down on its onslaught, and only now - with morning knocking at the door - were the snows beginning to relent. She wished for sleep to take her back, but the cold was in her bones and any such desires would go unfulfilled.
Footprints in the snow, East, west, forever hunting, Search becomes escape.
She felt underneath the blankets - blankets that her destroyer had provided - and within the folds she found a small satchel. As she opened the clasp she couldn’t help but smile. Inside was a fresh packet of Camel blues and a dry lighter. A tear ran down her cheek, merging with melting snowflakes before it could trace its own path.
Next to this fresh saviour was another rectangular object, and when she pulled it from the satchel she observed a small cassette player with a pair of headphones plugged into it. She tentatively placed one into her ear, regarding the object with a healthy degree of suspicion. A cassette tape had already been placed inside, and before she pressed the play button she checked behind and around her for any onlookers that might judge her for momentarily succumbing to her own curiosity. The cassette crackled and buzzed as it began to roll. It sounded like it had been recorded in the middle of a blizzard. She soon realised that it had been.
“I guess drowning isn’t something that I think is becoming of you, Dreamer. You can tell Toner and the rest of the world you won if it matters that much to you. I don’t think that was the point though. It wasn’t my place to finish your story. Nor was it your place to finish mine.”
As the voice, the voice of a Faded Star from a lifetime ago, continued on its predetermined course, she busied herself in tearing open the box of cigarettes. She lamented that he hadn’t included a bottle as well, but beggars can’t be choosers.
“Hell of a fight though. I guess you could say it was a draw. I chose flight rather than fight. Our quarrels ultimately are not with each other.”
For a moment the monologue faltered, and the man laughed. Somehow, she thought it friendly.
“It’ll break your heart to know that there’s someone else, I’m sure. My motivations aren’t really worth explaining to you. There’s a time and place for that. Just know that I’m not frightened of anything that appears on the road ahead.”
She sucked greedily at her cigarette and lay back in the snow, her head upon her rucksack, staring up at the sky.
“I guess Danny Toner may have achieved what he wanted… perhaps we all did. I can only hope you go back to the FWA having learned something. You can also tell Toner he owes me money for the cigarettes.”
With her hands in the snow beside her and the smoke between her pursed lips, she felt the slow rumbling of the mountain's roots, deep down in the earth.
“Still, I don’t know what you were looking for. I can only hope that you found it and this has given way to intent for action.”
She could hear the ocean. She could smell the salt in the air. She could feel the heartbeat of the forest.
“Return home and do what you’re capable of. My eyes are opened and I’ll be watching.”
She opened her eyes. One solitary star flew directly above her, bright and magnificent upon a sea of blackness.
“You never know… perhaps our paths will cross again sooner rather than later...”
Life is beautiful.
| - - CREDITS - -
PROLOGUE
吹雪 . . . “THE BLIZZARD”
by SuperSaiyan.
ACT I
前後 . . . “BEFORE AND AFTER”
by SuperSaiyan.
featuring
JON SNOWMANTASHI [noJ]
ACT II
夢のない放浪者 . . . “DREAMLESS WANDERER”
by RainShaker.
ACT III
島で . . . “ON THE ISLAND”
by SuperSaiyan.
featuring
DANNY TONER [Tig]
ACT IV
星と雪 . . . “THE STAR AND THE SNOW”
by RainShaker and SuperSaiyan.
featuring
GERALD GRAYSON [Jam]
MIKE PARR [TheProdigy]
with
BELL CONNELLY [An Original Name]
EPILOGUE
嵐の終わり . . . "STORM'S END"
by RainShaker and SuperSaiyan. |
|
|
|
Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 10:17:13 GMT
Promo history - volume 48.
"Act Three Scene Four" (February 8th, 2021).
Michelle von Horrowitz def. Uncle J.J. JAY! [First Blood Match] (FWA: Fight Night - Valentine's Day Massacre). MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
"ACT THREE SCENE FOUR."
[VOLUME 48]
The hall was grander than any that he had stood in before. The ceiling was unnecessarily high, and a line of ostentatious chandeliers loomed above, reflecting the sunlight from their magnificent (not to mention multitudinous) crystals. This sunlight cascaded in through the huge windows that lined the east and west walls, every other one a stain-glass depiction of some important event in the cast of characters’ shared history. Heavy gold curtains, delicately embroidered with flowers of red and pink and white, were drawn back to reveal an endless, green vista beyond. The flooring was of white marble, the same material from which a spiral staircase was wrought at the opposite end of the room. Where it led wasn’t clear. Either-side of the staircase was a door, numbered with either a one or a two.
The most noteworthy feature of the room, though, was undeniably the huge entrance to the building at the northern end. The double-doors stood perhaps six metres in height, and were wide enough that a battalion of broad-chested men could file through eight-abreast. They were made of heavy ironwood with gold handles as big as dustbin lids either side of the opening. Today, they had been flung open and outwards, revealing a long, winding track that led from the building towards the horizon. Tulips lined the road, and either side of it the rolling hills promised nothing in particular.
Inside the doors, his personage a customary mix of anxiety and hope, stood the FWA X Division Champion. Well, the former champion, now, and not the only one whose attendance had been requested at the manor. He was wearing a dazzling tuxedo, Hugo Boss with a four-button jacket and solid silver cufflinks, and his hair had been neatly coiffed into a large quiff that purveyed the confidence absent in the rest of his body. He was pacing this way and that, and would intermittently check his watch, shake his head, let out a sigh, and then continue with his pacing.
“She should be here by now,” he said, in general rather than to a specific person. There was no shortage of them there. Two of the guests had already gone ahead into the banquet hall, but there was evidence of many more humans in the building: maids, attendants, waiters, bellboys, hostesses, receptionists, and the like. Every now and then, the young man would see one emerge from door number one before disappearing again through door number two. They never did the same trick in reverse. There was one host at the main door, standing behind what looked like a pulpit, as if he was ready to embark on some moral tale on unsuspecting arrivals. He looked up from his notes, which he had been dutifully studying for the past several minutes, and regarded the young man quizzically.
“Don’t worry, Mr Grayson,” he said from behind a furrowed brow and a sizeable, wiry moustache. “She will be here. All three of her. Where else does she have?”
Gerald thought about this for a moment, and although he didn’t really understand, he still offered a nod in agreement.
It turned out that the attendant was correct, and only a few seconds later she stood in the massive door frame. She seemed somewhat nonplussed, but this was to be expected. She was awake, after all. Grayson watched on as she looked at each grandiose element of the room in turn, finally coming to observe the stain-glass window nearest to them. Two warriors stood in a circle emblazoned with flame, a woman tackling a man into the fire and tucking in her limbs to avoid its kiss. She smirked at it, and then stepped over the threshold.
“Good evening, Ms. von Horrowitz,” the attendant began, stepping towards the young woman with a smile that was meant to comfort her. “May I take your coat?”
Michelle offered the garment to the host as she stepped past him. Gerald looked at her outfit: she wore a navy blue cocktail dress by Tom Ford and a pair of white Louboutins with immaculate red soles. He noticed that, with each unnatural step, she left a red footprint on the white marble. The attendant didn’t seem to mind: instead, he spoke into a device on the label of his tuxedo and a short, old woman appeared with a mop. She stood a few metres away from Michelle, and every time the European took a step she was onhand to return the marble to its original, immaculate condition.
“You look beautiful,” Gerald said, looking her up and down with curiosity and wonder. It wasn’t every day that one got to behold Michelle von Horrowitz in all her finery. That none of this was real didn’t seem to matter.
“I look ridiculous,” she answered, shuffling uncomfortably from foot to foot, not particularly confident upon her stilettos, as they filed towards the staircase. “And so do you.”
Gerald just scoffed, as if he expected nothing less, and then began his ascent up the spiral staircase. She followed closely after him, holding onto the railing to ensure she retained her rather unsteady vertical base, and after a handful of steps it became apparent that another person was traversing the same staircase in the opposite direction. Michelle’s pace slowed by instinct. She had some sort of vague premonition that they were heading towards a dinner party (or similar social event), and of course she was fully aware of the associated interactions that such an engagement usually entailed. But she didn’t remember accepting any invitation, and now that she was here she wanted nothing more than to disappear through some back exit and lay upon the meadows, staring up at the clouds as they turned into stars.
The interloper rounded a turn on the spiral staircase, and Michelle found herself standing face to face with her deceased sister. Isobel had always been comely, with a skintone much more suggestive of vibrancy and good health than the usually pale van Horrowitz’s. Now, though, all colour had been drained from her, leaving a pallid and ghostly projection of her former self. She still smiled warmly and widely when she saw Michelle, as she always had, but the glint was absent from her eye, and a gnarly-looking wound had been stitched shut on the side of her neck and across her cleavage. Michelle von Horrowitz looked at her sister (who, of course, was a van Horrowitz, not a von Horrowitz, given that Michelle had changed her name as a young woman so as to appear provocative in her native Netherlands), or what was left her, and searched within for some sort of discernable emotional response. But there was no ecstacy at their reunion, and no repulsion at her grisly fate. All that there was was a sad realisation that this vision was a mere projection of Michelle’s subconscious, and would only tell her things that, deep down, she already knew.
“Well, aren’t you going to give your sister a hug?” Isobel asked, holding a glass of champagne in her outstretched hand. Michelle looked down at the scar and thought perhaps this wasn’t the best idea. This was not born out of squeamishness, but rather a worry that physical contact might open the wound up again. Isobel, noticing her sister recoil, simply let out a laugh. “I guess that was to be expected. You never really were the touchy-feely sort.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” Michelle asserted, staring in a blank fashion at her sister. Isobel paused and blinked, as if waiting for an elaboration that was never going to come.
“Oh, I know,” Isobel began, the lack of understanding quickly dissipating from her countenance and giving way to the pallid smiles that opened her involvement in the piece. “But I told the orchestra that this was just too important to miss. I’m sure they can play one show without their star cellist, you know? And besides, I never liked Berlin anyway.”
“No,” Michelle replied, abruptly. Isobel had looked as if she was about to take Michelle by the arm and lead her the remainder of the way up the marble staircase, but the living girl was having none of it. She raised a palm towards her sister to check her momentum, and then once more regarded the wound that had been closed up on her torso. “You’re not meant to be here because you’re dead.”
Isobel smiled, and rolled her eyes.
“Oh, that,” she began whilst reaching out and taking her sister by the wrist. She led her up the stars, looking back with a smile as Michelle did her best to not follow. “Don’t worry about that. You shouldn’t get bogged down in the details.”
With that, Michelle was dragged up the rest of the staircase and to a large white door at the top of it. There was a candle either side of the entrance, but only the one on the left held flame. The living girl took a deep breath as her sister pushed open the door and continued on into the ballroom beyond. She allowed herself one last glance back in Gerald’s direction, and found him to be awkwardly shuffling on the uppermost step, somewhat reluctant to make his way into the hall himself.
The ballroom was a hive of activity, with dozens of finely-dressed people sharing anecdotes or eating appetizers or staring up at the stage. Michelle found that she recognised only a minority of them, and when she attempted to regard the features of the additional extras she could only comment upon the nondescript nature of them. Perhaps half of the people present in the ballroom seemed to be working there in some capacity, and were generally busying themselves in the completion of menial tasks designed to make the guests’ visit more comfortable. She noticed that the majority of the canapés remained untouched, and were simply paraded around the room on their silver tray before disappearing again through one of the many service exits. There was too much to take in all at once, and she found her eyes constantly wandering towards the stage (as felt natural), and to a well-dressed but objectively-raggedy puppeteer who was working a marionette into a state of frenzy. His marionette had under its control an even smaller marianotte, and the artist went on in his task as he was performing for an audience of himself. Michelle watched the deft movements of his hands, and it was only then that she realised thin wires connected them to an unknown and unseen master in the heavens.
She felt somewhat overwhelmed and, in circling this way and that, she locked eyes upon a familiar but unexpected attendee. The Cosmic Horror was standing alone in a corner with a tray of appetizers in front of him. He had seemingly taken one of each type from the waiters, and was now engaged in trying them in turn. He lifted up a small crouton that had been smeared in a light pink salmon paste, sniffed at it twice, recoiled, and then popped it into his mouth. It appeared that he enjoyed the taste of it a lot more than the smell.
“What is he doing here?” Michelle asked Gerald. The young man was busy collecting an aubergine cracker from a passing attendant, following up with a dismissive wave towards one carrying flutes of champagne. He picked up his tap water and then followed her gaze towards Jay.
“Oh,” he said, as if this prompt acted as a timely reminder that the current, reigning, and defending FWA X Division Champion was in attendance. Gerard bit into his cracker and continued with a mouthful of food. “Well, it sort of makes sense for him to be here, don’t you think? I mean, we used to be partners, and now he wants to team up with me. You, ahem, never lost the X Championship, and he has that belt now. Well, a version of it, anyway…”
Michelle thought her friend’s words over for a moment (in-between greedy glugs from her flute). The Cosmic Horror concurrently sampled an olive (along with a clove of garlic and a sun-dried tomato, threaded onto a cocktail stick) and found it lacking. He took the food out of his mouth and placed it back onto the tray.
“No,” she asserted, shaking her head and taking another gulp of the champagne. “He shouldn’t be here. It doesn’t feel right. Parr should be here.”
“Well, he’s not,” Geralf answered, finally swallowing his aubergine cracker and turning to face Michelle directly. He looked handsome in his tuxedo, and Michelle found herself observing him in his totality whilst he spoke. “And Jay is. You’re just going to have to live with that.”
As he finished, an attendant struck a large gong which seemed to signify that the next part of the evening was about to begin. Michelle was the only one in the ballroom who didn’t immediately know what that meant, but she followed the flock and was a quick learner. Most of the workers filed through the service exits, and the unknown, nondescript extras soon followed through the main doors. They were silent and sullen as they went, as if they were forced to remove themselves before the secret of the evening had been revealed. Soon enough, there remained only Uncle Jay, Isobel, Gerald, perhaps a half-dozen waiters, and the head attendant (along with his gong).
It was then that Michelle noticed for the first time a large and rather grand dining table in the centre of the room, and its sudden appearance made her question whether it had always been there or if it had miraculously been produced upon the room’s emptying. The other guests and the employees had no such questions, and they made their way towards it whilst engaging in inane small-talk that Michelle wanted no part of. The table had been made up in a somewhat intimate manner despite the grandeur of the room, with plates and cutlery interspersed with vases of bright flowers, wax candles, jugs of water, and - most importantly - an astronomical number of bottles of wine, each of which had been opened in preparation of their arrival. There were no glasses, and as they were seated each of the occupants picked up their own bottle and set it down before them (except for Gerald, who wanted a clear head in the morning).
There were six seats set up around the table, and Isobel took hers next to Gerald on one of the longer sides. Jay took up position at one of its ends, but its proximity to the entrance suggested to Michelle that it was the foot rather than the head. Opposite her sister and her partner were two empty seats.
“Who else is coming?” she asked.
“You are,” her sister answered, with a playful smile that suggested she enjoyed Michelle’s bewilderment. “Don’t worry, you’ll be here soon. Take your seat.”
Michelle looked at the head of the table, and saw that her seat had already been taken. In her place was the figure - the ghost-like, translucent figure, but the figure nonetheless - of The Prodigy himself. Her white whale stared off nonchalantly into the distance, unwilling to recognise the existence of anyone else at the table. He tapped his fingers on its surface and made no sound. Michelle, for her own part, simply stood with her mouth slightly ajar, the Ghost of Mike Parr leaving her without remark.
“Which of you have done this?”
The entire table looked from Michelle to the empty chair, and then back to Michelle.
“Done what?” Isobel asked, her previous amusement taking a turn towards concern. “Are you not well? Perhaps this wasn’t a very good idea, after all…”
“No, no,” insisted Gerald, standing and moving around the table to take his partner by the hand. He nervously spoke back towards the other guests as he led Michelle out of earshot. “Please, she is often like this. It will pass. Take a seat.”
When she felt sure of their privacy, Michelle took a sidewards look towards the head seat. It was no longer occupied by the ghost-like figure she had beheld mere moments before.
“If I stand here, I saw him,” she said, reaching over towards a passing tray of champagne and deftly lifting up a flute. Her wine was too far and too long away. “Mike Parr. A spirit.”
Gerald looked at her anxiously, his eyes narrowing and his hands fidgeting in his pockets.
“A trick of the light, maybe,” he offered with a shrug. The young woman finished the flute in two helpings and placed the empty back on the tray. “We should sit down. The rest of the guests are about to arrive.”
A few minutes later, in through the door strode two extremely- and uncomfortably-familiar figures dressed in identical navy blue Tom Ford cocktail dresses (and red-soled white Louboutins, complete with a pair of little old women to mop up the footprints they left behind). They were, ostensibly, two mirror images of Michelle von Horrowitz, brought to life by some witchcraft that couldn't be explained away as a trick of the light. Regardless, none of the other dinner guests seemed even remotely perplexed by their arrival, and so no explanation was necessary (or, unfortunately for Michelle, immediately forthcoming). They were precisely like her in every way imaginable, except that the one on the left had a metal hand, and the one on the right was green.
As they sat down and were told how great it was that they could join us, a team of attendants arrived through one of the side doors with six bowls of soup and six plates of salad. Michelle wasn’t hungry, and instead simply stared at the cucumber slices, tomato, lettuce, and dressing that made up the mundane and uninspiring dish. The soup was lukewarm and pale brown in colour, and when Michelle ran her spoon through it she lifted up chunks of fish alongside the broth. She sat back in her chair, and found her eyes naturally wandering to the unnatural replicants that were lauding the culinary credentials of the kitchen staff.
“Why are you green?” she asked, staring at the Michelle closest to her.
“Why do you think when you speak it always appears in green font?” the replicant answered.
“My speech doesn’t appear in font.”
“Sure it doesn’t.”
Michelle blinked at her, and then turned back towards the rest of the party.
“Excuse me if I am slow on the uptake,” she said. “But who the fuck are these people?”
Isobel let out a thin, high giggle. Gerald set down his cutlery and ensured his mastication was thorough before swallowing a large tomato. Jay held a piece of lettuce aloft in the air.
“They are you,” Gerald gave by way of an answer.
“I swear to fucking God if another person calls them me like that is meant to mean something I will murder all of your children.”
“None of us have any children,” Isobel said, tutting and rolling her eyes at the perceived logical misstep. She followed up with an uncharacteristically lengthy pull from her bottle of red, before turning to offer Gerald a wink. “At least not yet, anyway.”
“Childbirth is not sexy,” he replied.
“What is going on here?” Michelle asked, once again.
“Look, Michelle,” Gerald began, turning to address her in earnest for the first time since they had sat down. “If you want us to give you a full accounting of the history of multi-dimensional travel and the theory behind our parallel universes, we can. But we only have four to five thousand words to work with, and it’s not a particularly interesting story, anyway.”
Michelle cocked an eye-brow, and turned once again towards the two replicants.
“What happened to your hand?” she asked. “Did you do that in the ring?”
“You know that trick that makes the flame on your lighter go huge?” the one-handed Michelle asked, her voice thick with an even more noticeable Dutch accent. “People shouldn’t do that shit.”
“But you are at least wrestlers, right?” Michelle asked, regarding each of them in turn as they continued with their salads. “People wouldn’t like it if there were too many non-wrestlers at dinner.”
“That’s your problem,” the green Michelle answered with a rueful shake of the head. “Always worried about what other people would or wouldn’t like.”
“Well, technically, her problems are our problems,” the one-handed Michelle posited.
“Yes, but we know that it’s a problem,” the green Michelle answered, turning to her counterpart. “Acceptance of one’s shortcomings is important. This one… this one isn’t there yet.”
She waved towards Michelle, our Michelle, as she finished her thought, and then proceeded to finish her soup.
“You know, it’s much weirder that he is here,” the green Michelle insisted, pointing decisively at Uncle Jay as she spoke. “I don’t know why you’re questioning us when the man who took our belt and Gerald from us is directly across from you.”
“You don’t know if he took it from us or if he takes it from us,” the one-handed Michelle interjected. She pointed towards our Michelle as she went on. “For her, I mean.”
“Good point,” the green Michelle conceded, as she swallowed the last of her lettuce and pushed her plate away from her. She now felt content to focus on the wine. “Whereabouts in the timeline are you?”
Michelle only offered a placid blink in response.
“You know, inter-dimensional travel is not cheap,” the green Michelle said, rather sharply. “We can only help you if you tell us what you know.”
“We’re not all at the same point?” our Michelle asked. It seemed she wasn’t willing to just throw herself in, at least not just yet.
“Again, our explanations will not satisfy you, unless we waste all the time we have on them,” the one-handed Michelle offered. “But no, we are not all at the same point. Have you fought Cyrus yet?”
“Only in tag team matches,” Michelle answered. “With Cromwell.”
“Okay, so earlier then… way earlier, it seems… how about Parr? Have you wrestled him?”
“I’m about to,” Michelle said, a glint of defiance passing across her face. “This month. I just got back from Japan.”
“Oh,” the green Michelle started, suddenly full of nostalgia and satisfaction. “That’s a fun one. You’ve got a lot to look forward to! You’re way behind, it seems… But that doesn’t explain why he is here…”
Again, the replicant pointed in an obvious manner at the X Division Champion. The Cosmic Horror didn’t seem to even notice, and instead was sniffing at a chunk of fish from his nearly-consumed soup. Our Michelle elected to ignore the question completely.
“Do we beat Parr?” she asked.
“I didn’t,” the one-handed Michelle said. “She did. That doesn’t matter, anyway. We meet him again, and quite soon after the first time. The timelines can veer off on little tangents, but they always return to the same point eventually.”
As she finished the exposition the main course arrived, and when the silver lid was lifted from the tray Michelle found herself staring at an unappetizing pasta dish swimming in a bland and watery sauce.
“You didn’t answer my question,” the green Michelle said, retaining her sharpness in tone. “What is The Cosmic Horror doing here?”
“I’m wrestling him this week,” Michelle answered, as if that was enough to justify his presence at the table.
“This week?!” the one-handed Michelle asked, incredulously. “In-between Japan and Parr? Why?!”
“Um…” Gerald started, by his very nature unsure of himself. “Well, they both teamed with me, so there’s that… and Jay has the X Div - -”
“You are literally the only person who thinks he should be here, Gerald,” our Michelle barked, kicking her partner’s shins beneath the table.
“It just makes no sense for him to be here instead of Parr,” the green Michelle said, shaking her head as if the point won itself. ”You are wasting our time with him.”
“You don’t sound like me,” our Michelle motioned, pushing the pasta away from her without sampling so much as a mouthful. “You sound like everyone else.”
“Well, we do wrestle Uncle Jay,” the one-handed Michelle started, her tone somewhat conciliatory. “And we team with him, too. But not before Parr. That’s an aberration. It’s odd we didn’t realise this.”
The two replicants had already finished their first bottle of wine, and Michelle was disappointed to find herself only two-thirds through with hers. She re-doubled her efforts to keep up.
“So,” the green Michelle began, softening her questioning. “Where are you with Parr? Does he know you worked it out yet?”
“I…” our Michelle stuttered. She felt a sudden unmistakable pang of shame in her stomach. “I didn’t work it out.”
“You didn’t work it out?!”
The green Michelle was incredulous, and placed her cutlery down in front of her. She folded her arms and shook her head: a drama school depiction of the conveyed emotions.
“Do you know how much it costs to fly not one but two parallel beings into a third’s subconscious? Do you know how much time and effort it takes to do that?! Of course you don’t. Your tiny little Delta Quadrant A642Yгдф Earth-minds couldn’t comprehend that feat. We should’ve known. Deficient Earths lead to deficient Michelles. I… I just don’t even...”
The green Michelle lifted her napkin from her lap and wiped her hands with it, before throwing it onto the table.
“Come on, Michelle,” she said, motioning towards the one-handed replicant at her side. “We’re leaving.”
And with that, they were gone.
In the meantime, the remnants of the pasta dish were collected in and soon replaced with a sponge-based dessert with a thick dollop of lumpy jelly surgically inserted into its middle. Nobody spoke for some minutes. Michelle looked at the pudding and wondered how many cows had been abused in its making, and then lamented her inherent hostility when she regarded her companions enjoying their own servings. Their communal delight was going some way in alleviating the tension (or at least their perception of it) caused by the recent exit, but it did nothing to make Michelle, our Michelle, feel less alienated. Suddenly, the table felt twenty metres long, and the other three guests were huddled in conspiratorial fashion at the far end of it.
Re-enter GHOST OF MIKE PARR.
Almost involuntarily, Michelle stood from the table, pushing her chair back in the process and taking a pair of steps in retreat. The spirit remained at a distance, a handful of metres away, at the shoulder of her long-dead sister. Michelle closed her eyes tightly, and hoped against hope that a trick of the light had in fact made a fool of her. When she opened them, the ghost remained, and stared off absently at some vague point upon the high ceiling.
“Avaunt!” she screeched, loud enough so that the other guests - suddenly much nearer to her once more - looked up from their puddings (all except Uncle Jay). “Quit my sight, I have no time for your marrowless bones. You are without speculation, and you aren’t welcome here.”
Gerald and Isobel looked at each other nervously, and then towards the empty space which was the subject of Michelle’s fermenting vitriol.
“What do you call this?” Uncle Jay asked, pressing at his pudding with a finger.
“It’s a sponge-cake,” Gerald said, nervously.
“Ah,” Uncle Jay responded, satisfaction plain upon his face. “Sponge-cake.”
If nothing else, The Cosmic Horror’s declaration had lifted the Ghost’s spell, and the ballroom was once more free from spirits.
“Why the fuck are you here?” Michelle said, slamming a fist down onto the table to regather their focus. Uncle Jay paid her no mind, and instead continued his investigation into his dessert’s finer points. The young woman decided that her pleas were better suited to her dead sister and her useless partner, and so she turned towards them instead
“There is no earthly reason for him to be here. It should’ve been Parr. It should be Parr. I have no use for this man, whose existence serves to play out a joke that only he understands... and he serves only as the type of distraction that I’ve decided to do without. What purpose does his company here tonight serve? This is not a situation from which I can emerge unscathed, and the Ghost of Mike Parr looms over us even now, as you cram your uninspiring food into your uninspiring mouths. Uncle Jay speaks of nothing but cake, and without words Mike Parr’s spirit manages to say twice as much. My time is wasted here. This is an insignificant man.”
The Cosmic Horror stood from the table, as if he had something to say. Finally, after a pause that seemed to stretch out for slightly longer than was comfortable, he went down onto his haunches to see the sponge-cake on its own level. A few seconds passed, and then he smiled.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, staring up with glee at his companions. “I understand!”
Michelle glared. The rage spilled over.
“I mean, what even is he?! Is he meant to be an alien? What the fuck is a Cosmic Horror?! Why is NOBODY else asking this? This ridiculous person, or whatever he is, just shows up and starts spewing nonsense in all directions and doing mad shit that has no underlying logic or point and we’re just meant to accept this? What does he do, other than babble nonsensically about this or that in a manner that ninety nine point nine per cent of the fucking population does every day anyway?! It doesn’t mean anything. He’s paper-thin, and blows in the fucking wind. It’s all meaningless.”
A few beats passed. Isobel smirked unhelpfully. Gerald melted into a puddle of his own making. Finally, deliberately, Uncle Jay looked into Michelle’s eyes.
“It is all meaningless,” he said, slowly and whilst swallowing the final bite of his dessert. With that, he stood from his chair, and offered each of them a nod. He turned on his heel, and walked towards the exit.
“You know, that was awfully close to a monologue,” Isobel posited. She finally felt it safe to return to her dessert. “People hate monologues.”
Michelle wasn’t listening. Instead, she stared after Uncle Jay, who walked through a door that was being held open by one of the attendants. When it was closed behind him, Michelle felt - and submitted to - a sudden urge to get up and follow. At the top of the stair-case, she watched as he collected his coat and his hat from another servant. Without a second thought, he left through the huge main entrance, and Michelle darted off in pursuit.
Outside, Michelle found the man walking towards a large ship designed for interstellar travel. Sure, it wasn’t quite inter-dimensional, but Michelle still felt sure that its mechanisms were very impressive and its running costs sizable. She had to jog across the gardens in order to catch up with The Cosmic Horror, and when she did he turned around to face her. She suddenly didn’t know what to say.
“Yes?” he asked, not unkindly.
She didn’t think, but the words fell out of her mouth anyway.
“Why did you come here tonight? Why did everybody pretend to enjoy the food? Why am I here? Am I really here? I mean, I know I’m not here, but I mean it in a wider sense. And if I am, does that give my actions any more intrinsic worth than if I wasn’t? Does it matter if I beat Mike Parr, like, at all? Are we only the creation of a shared history? Am I alone? Do you have any fucking clue what I’m talking about?”
Her breathing was laboured, and there was a wild look on her face.
”I don’t know why you are here, or why my sister is, or Gerald. I know why the replicants were. Or at least I think I do. But tomorrow I will only half-remember this, and I have many more questions than I have answers. Are all our monuments truly the maws of kites? Am I just a projection of somebody else? Am I only words on a page? A series of metaphors and pastiches that only I am privy to? What does all of this mean?”
He sighed, and she felt that he was smiling beneath his mask.
“Michelle… this is meant to be fun.”
“What is?”
“All of it.”
And with that, he got in his spaceship, and flew off into the night’s sky. |
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Post by supinesnake on May 30, 2024 10:19:14 GMT
Promo history - volume 49.
"The Bandit Queen" (February 19th, 2021).
Michelle von Horrowitz def. Mike Parr (FWA: Desert Storm). MICHELLE von HORROWITZ
in
[VOLUME 49]
”THE BANDIT QUEEN.”
***
1872. The American Midwest. Winter.
Part One.
***
"as the sun is sinking low, and the evening's tucked in tow.
on the horizon, my true love I see.
she ain't fancy, she ain't fine, while her fingers number only nine.
she's the belle of the ball of the insurgency.
" 
Southern Missouri.
20 miles north of Sandgate.
The young man felt at home within the shadow of the trees. He listened to the wind softly rustling the bare branches around him as his cigarette smoked itself to nothing, finally extinguished by the pressing cold. He let it fall out of his mouth and onto the ground, placing his heavy boot atop of it to ensure the acres of dry wood around him didn’t consort with its final embers. As he did so, his spurs softly jangled, echoed and amplified amidst an otherwise silent night. Partly to mask himself and partly to fend off the cold, he pulled his dark green neckerchief back over his face and placed his hat atop his crown. He continued to stare out into the South with piercing, distant eyes.
Somewhere nearby stood a dozen men that he had enlisted to help him in tonight’s task. Some of them he'd known for years, and had been a regular fixture in the gang since the early days in Illinois and Michigan. That number was smaller than he’d like, though, and seemed to get smaller still each time he rounded them up, This in itself was quite the feat: dispersed, as they often were, in separate corners of the Midwest. He'd never seen most of the men that had been enlisted for this misadventure before, though, and the majority were generally local ruffians drafted in because of a shortfall in numbers. Sometimes, he worried that the next time he’d be in their company would be in the sheriff’s office, on opposite sides of the argument. His closest 'friends' (in the fashion that he had any, which was far from the conventional definition) told him he was becoming paranoid, and perhaps they were right. Most likely, he’d never see those enlisted again. But still, the worry was as real to him as the cold.
He took a few steps forward until he felt the railroad track beneath his boot. He struck a match and held it in front of him, the miniscule radius of the light barely enough to reveal the large barricade that had been mounted on top of the tracks. It was mostly wooden sleepers that they’d taken from the service stop a few miles up the track, and finding himself happy with its height and its girth he shook the match until it went out and lowered himself onto his knees. Carefully and deliberately, he placed an ear against the iron of the track. He could hear the track beginning to vibrate. Somewhere in the near-distance, a train was traversing the rails at all the pace that the technology of the time would allow. The man stood up, smiling to himself at the untimely timeliness of the train, and then began to mount the barricade.
Finally, in the distance, a beam of light appeared, foreshadowing the arrival of the train to which it was attached. When the light centred itself on the barricade that blocked its path, a thin, high whistle sounded out. The man shook his head. He was unsure if the driver had sounded it to ask them to kindly move out of its path or to alert any nearby souls (of which there weren’t any) of its oncoming doom. Both actions were futile and quite frankly ridiculous. Smoke began to billow, the result of the friction of the train’s brakes as it accepted its fate and began to slow towards a halt.
The man upon the barricade reached to his side and removed his shooter from its holster. The grip felt comfortable, despite the fact that he was missing two fingers on his right hand from the second knuckle. He slowly raised the pistol into the air and cocked it, the delicate click of the mechanism being matched by a dozen similar weapons all around him.
***
Lonehill, Western Missouri.
Sixty miles north of Sandgate.
It was a new night, but the saloon was exactly the same. Its most notable feature, now and always, was that it was almost empty but for the handful of poor, lost souls who were employed there. The first thing that one noticed upon entry was the large stage at its northern wall, upon which one man played the piano whilst another solemnly tap-danced to an audience of none. In front of the stage was the dancefloor, large enough to house half a hundred revellers but currently as barren and empty as the badlands that surrounded the small town. Away in a dark corner, the old, lecherous man who lived in the small hut at the foot of the hill was being entertained by a shapely but buck-toothed whore he’d brought back with him from Kansas City. And behind the bar, Ms. Montgomery ran an old rag around the rim of a tankard, staring down at it with a glum countenance and a lack of discernible hope.
The sheriff walked across the dancefloor and towards the counter. She stared disapprovingly at the old letch as he buried his head in the prostitute’s bosom, eliciting a high and ugly laugh from his girl. The sheriff was done chasing whores and Johns and the general illicit nature of their exploits. She’d learned in St. Louis that such errands were useless. . That was about all she’d learned in St. Louis. The old man seemed to enjoy her disdain, and placed his hands just above the girl’s hips and gently squeezed, causing her to throw her head back and thrust her barely-covered breasts into his face. He smiled at the sheriff with his yellowing teeth, and she couldn’t help but look away.
She took a seat on the opposite side of the counter from Ms. Montgomery, and looked upon the not-uncomely but quickly-aging woman. The saloon owner stared across the saloon at the old man. She shook her head and placed the now-clean tankard down on a shelf, turning towards the sheriff with a look of despair.
“They’ve been here hours,” Montgomery said, reaching below the counter for the bottle of bourbon that she already felt assured the sheriff would ask for. “It’s this sort of behaviour that'll keep the regular customers away, once they’ve built the new line.”
Michelle cocked an eyebrow as Montgomery pushed a large measure of bourbon across the surface of the bar. The sheriff placed out her hand to stop it, grasped it with her pale fingers, and then took a long pull of the amber liquid. Montgomery was always talking about the new line, and had been doing so since she’d first moved to the town nearly a decade ago. The sheriff had been here just over a year, but she’d observed the older woman enough to decipher at least a partial history. Ms. Montgomery had moved to the town of Lonehill after her husband died, and used the money he’d left her to buy the saloon. At the time, the locals were buzzing about a planned railroad between Kansas City and somewhere in Illinois that would pass right through the town. They had even built a station in preparation for the track. The plans had stalled, though, and even if they had never been cancelled completely it now seemed little more than a pipe dream that the railroad would be built here and bring some customers to Ms. Montgomery and her saloon. Two years ago, a different track had been built to the south, passing by somewhere near Sandgate before snaking round to Kansas City, which seemed the final nail in the coffin of the Lonehill line. But still, Montgomery talked of the prospect often, even if hope had long-since disappeared from her voice.
“Still,” she started, an ulterior motive plain. “I don’t suppose they’ll want to build a new line here anytime soon, so long as we’re harbouring known gunslingers in town.”
Michelle stared down at her drink, one hand around it and the other playing with one of the five points on the gold star that was pinned to her waistcoat. She understood the woman’s meaning. The saloon owner had made the same thinly-veiled suggestion many times before. The sheriff finished her drink and signalled for another.
“You don’t know he’s a gunslinger,” Michelle began, catching the sliding drink once again and helping herself to another greedy mouthful. “You don’t know anything.”
Ms. Montgomery smirked derisively and shook her head.
“Were you always like this?” she asked.
“Like what?” the sheriff replied. She had a habit of answering a question with another.
“Scared.”
Michelle didn’t turn towards her, and found herself shamed by the truth of the accusation. It had been this way since St. Louis. Instead, she stared over at the piano player and the tap dancer as they came to the underwhelming climax of their routine.
“I’ll have to let Randy and Chris go if this keeps up much longer,” Montgomery said. “Did you hear about the robbery near Sandgate last night?”
Slowly, Michelle nodded her head.
“I heard.”
“Well, are you doing anything about it?” the saloon owner pried, picking up another tankard and beginning to wipe that one down with her rag. Michelle didn’t feel the need to point out that it was already clean.
“The Kansas City department is looking into it,” she answered, reaching into her pocket for her pipe and tobacco. “I think the Sandgate sheriff is there as well. There’s no need for me to get involved.”
“I’m sure they’d disagree if they knew who was here,” Montgomery asserted, quite confident in her words. “Did you hear the eye-witness accounts? A man with three fingers on his right hand? You think Mr. Parr has a brother, and that it’s a genetic condition?”
Michelle finished her second drink and placed her glass on the counter, internally remarking upon the fact that the saloon owner seemed better informed of local criminality than the sheriff was. It was well-known that Montgomery had her ear to the ground for anything pertaining to the railroad. Still, a witch hunt was the last thing the sheriff needed, and Montgomery had had it in for the young man with three fingers on his right hand ever since he'd first come to Lonehill. She let out a sigh, both at the trajectory of the conversation and the work shift that was about to begin.
“I’ll send a telegram,” she conceded, sliding her empty back up the bar towards the saloon owner. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Mhm.”
The air outside was cold and the dark had already taken hold. Michelle lit her pipe and looked out over the one-horse town that was now home. It wasn’t St. Louis. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. Change is neither good nor bad, but sometimes it's necessary. That's what she'd been told, anyway. She began to ascend the dirt track that led up to the jailhouse, sucking lethargically at her pipe and intermittently staring at the pale, crescent moon that smiled down upon them. It seemed somewhat ironic, considering that the people here were invariably miserable. She passed the stables, a half-dozen small houses, the convenience store, and the undertaker’s on her way, and chuckled to herself: she had accomplished an exhaustive tour of the town of Lonehill in less than a pair of minutes.
She pushed open the doors of the jailhouse in a more abrupt manner than intended, startling the young man in uniform who occupied one of its two desks. He sat up straight, appeared flustered, and pushed a few strands of untamed hair out of his eyes.
“Oh, it’s you,” he began, relaxing once more before getting up from his chair. He picked up his jacket and his hat from the stand, placing the former atop his head and slinging the latter over his shoulder. Deputy Grayson was not a particularly courageous man, or a particularly strong man, or a particularly smart man. He was dutiful and loyal, though, and these were perhaps more important attributes in a deputy than courage, strength, or intelligence. He was never late for a shift and never clocked off early, and she was led to believe that this had been the case long before she had come. “I was worried you were going to be late again.”
“Got somewhere to be?” the sheriff asked, more out of mischief than anything else. In this town, nobody ever had somewhere to be. “Did I miss anything today?”
“Just the usual,” Deputy Grayson said, pulling his arms through the sleeves of his jacket and making his way towards the exit. “Those two have been harassing the saloon owner again. The standard kind of stuff.”
He nodded at the jailhouse’s one cell, within which the Valanders soundly slept, a long, thin piece of hay perched haphazardly between the younger brother’s teeth.
“I think the randy buggers just need to sleep it off,” Grayson added. He gave her a nod, and took his leave.
Michelle sat at her desk and took a piece of paper from one of the drawers. She began to scribble onto it in her rather childish hand, stopping after almost every word to check for legibility as well as coherency.
She sat back in her chair and reread the telegram: wincing at the heavy-handedness of it, flinching at her lack of conviction, recoiling from the absence of evidence. She shook her head at its unsatisfying climax, and finally decided it was better suited to the bin. She crumpled it up into a tight ball and threw it across the room, watching on as it bounced off the rim of the basket and landed on the floor.
She placed her boots on top of the desk and pulled open her bottom drawer, retrieving a bottle of bourbon and a dirty glass.
That night, whilst asleep at her desk, she dreamed (as she often did (as she always did) of St. Louis. She was standing in the cemetery, the full moon high above her, listening to the cackles of the woman - The Bandit Queen - as she had done during a thousand similar dreams. Not similar, the same. The sound was imprinted in her consciousness, along with the words that she spat out that night under the pale moonlight.
”You know, you’ve brought this on yourself.”
She awoke in a cold sweat, and Deputy Grayson reliably informed her that she’d been muttering about The Bandit Queen and how she'd worked it out and that it had to be her and that it was the only explanation and she was sure sure so sure not a single doubt left in her addled mind. He asked her what she was dreaming about, but she lied and told him that she couldn’t remember. His lack of belief was obvious, but he didn’t press the point.
***
Even the most unobservant observer would notice that, over the coming days, the strange young man who had recently moved to the town - the one who was the constant subject of the saloon owner's ire and who simply went by Mr. Parr to all but his closest friend - began to show more wealth than was suggested by his apparent lack of employment. As he was seemingly rather generous with it - providing clothes and food and the like for local youths when their parents couldn’t quite make ends meet - not many of the townsfolk seemed to mind. When he handed out these gifts to the youngsters he wore a padded glove upon his right hand so as to hide his missing fingers and not scare them, or invite unwanted questions from their parents. This new fortune was a mutually agreeable situation, and so the people of Lonehill barely questioned the recently-attained or suddenly-discovered wealth of Mr. Parr.
That is, of course, with the notable exception of the saloon owner, who questioned his upturn in fortune at almost every opportunity, and invariably within earshot of the sheriff.
“You know he was here last night?” Montgomery was saying, the sheriff only half-listening as she eyed up the tap dancer and the piano player from across the room. “Buying drinks like he was Robin Hood… tipping the artists… telling the punters - the real punters - that he planned to open up a school nearby. A school?! What are we to do with a school?! If he really wanted to help, he’d be lobbying for the railroad. I imagine it’ll end up a whorehouse…”
“You’re still talking about Mr. Parr?” she asked, dragging her eyes away from the performers and observing Montgomery carefully.
“Of course I am!” she continued, barely managing to keep a lid on her overflowing anger. “Did you ever send that telegram to Kansas City?”
Michelle didn’t answer.
“You know, at the very least, you could talk to him,” Montgomery said, returning to her rag and a freshly dirtied tankard.
That evening, she found her courage and went to see Mr. Parr. As she walked up the dirt track towards his house, she saw him reclining in a rocking chair on his front porch. He had a pipe in his mouth and was looking unblinkingly into the sunset, but she had the unshakeable feeling that he was watching her approach out of the corner of his eye. When she was a few metres away, two young men emerged from the house and shared a few hushed words with its owner. He nodded affirmatively, and they took their leave. They passed by the sheriff as she approached, and each of them took their turn in eyeing her up carefully, searching for the meaning of her visit.
“Evening, sheriff,” Mr. Parr said, taking off his hat as an unnecessary sign of respect. She had come to a halt at the gate, one hand on top of it, the other nervously fondling one of the points of her badge. She reached for her own pipe, for no other reason than to keep her hands busy. “You’re not coming in? Sean and… well, I forget the other one’s name, but… they’re both for the saloon this evening, so it appears I’m at a loose end.”
He was smiling as he smoked, but she found it uncomely and deceitful. When he took his pipe out of his mouth to flick out the ash she regarded the missing fingers on his right hand.
After a few moments, she realised that she had said and done nothing in response, and felt all-the-more stupid for her inactivity.
“I’ll fetch another bottle,” he said, picking up the conversational slack as he stood from his seat. He lethargically made his way into the house. Outside of his presence, she felt liberated from the paralysis that she had inconveniently found herself under. She pushed open the gate and walked up to the house, spotting a second rocking chair across the table from Parr’s and dutifully sitting in it. His porch offered about as fine a view of the town as one could hope to find, and she allowed her eyes to drift over the stables, the saloon, and the unused railway station. Her heart sank at the pathetic and sorry nature of it. She pictured it as a town-sized jail, where all of the region's failures would come to wile away their hours until polio got them, or a horse kicked them in the chest, or they succumbed to whatever grim end fate had in store. Fate as malleable as clay, she thought, before cursing herself for the anachronistic reference.
Parr reappeared and - delicately, she thought, for a man with only eighty percent of his digits intact - placed a bottle and two glasses down on the table. Michelle was packing tobacco into her pipe, and the man struck a match for her before taking his seat.They sat in silence for a very long time, the young man staring out over the landscape with his vaguely-unsettling smile upon his face. They both smoked their pipes and drank their bourbon, the sun making its retreat from the day in cowardice and casting a band of bold, orange light across the horizon. It would be a while yet before the moon and the stars made their appearance, and for the moment it felt as if the world had been abandoned by the other celestial bodies, forgotten about and alone and left to its own devices.
Eventually, after pouring himself a fresh glass and placing his pipe down on the table, Mr. Parr broke the silence.
“You know, when I first moved here, I thought I’d grow tired of this view. Maybe I still will. But I don’t feel so sure now.”
Michelle looked out upon the same landscape and found it lacking. She had no interest in discussing it any further, and abruptly – bravely, she felt - changed the subject.
“Why did you come here?” she asked, setting her own pipe down and holding her glass at Parr for him to fill up.
“It’s quiet,” Parr said, without thinking. It appeared that he had thought about his answer to this question without ever being asked it. “You have probably noticed in your line of work that not a lot happens here. Unchallenging. Easy. Sometimes a man needs that. A woman too, I imagine.”
“How do you mean?” she asked. He smiled at her and she felt it in mockery of her lack of comprehension.
“When you’ve had a life like mine, and seen the things I’ve seen, a quiet life becomes more desirable,” he answered. She didn’t feel like this cleared anything up. “You know, I grew up in a place like this. I may have moved away, but you always come back home – or some reasonable approximation of it – eventually. You can change your surroundings, but you remain the same.”
She thought carefully about his words and found herself agreeing with them. She wondered if he knew about St. Louis, and if this utterance was meant as a catalyst for self-reflection. Either way, that was its effect.
”You know, you’ve brought this on yourself.”
She could hear The Bandit Queen’s words once more. She could see the tombstones in the cemetery. She could taste the damp St. Louis air on her tongue. Hear the rain thudding against the earth, turning it to mud. She closed her eyes tightly and suddenly to block the memory out, not a thought for how this would look to Mr. Parr. Eventually, she opened them, and found that he was staring off in the opposite direction.
“You know, I have the same question in my mind,” he began. “Why did you come here? I don’t mean Lonehill. I mean to my house. Not that I don’t enjoy visitors.”
Michelle sipped at her drink and rocked in her chair, wondering what degree of honesty would get this over with fastest and allow her to leave the man’s company. She found it overbearing and heavy, as if he exuded an intensity that she found altogether alien and unenjoyable. Eventually, she decided to just come out with it.
“Some people here in town… they heard about the train robbery down near Sandgate. They heard rumors of eye-witness reports. Of a man with three fingers on his right hand.”
She let the statement linger in the cold evening’s air for a moment, falling just short of an accusation but well on its way to being one. Mr. Parr simply smiled, and held up his right hand in front of him, observing the missing fingers in turn. The sheriff couldn’t help but follow his gaze, perusing the soft and pale skin at the end of each shortened digit.
“’Some people here in town’,” Mr. Parr began, still smiling to himself at nothing in particular. “And what about you? You’re the one with the star pinned to your chest, afterall.”
“Rumor and innuendo is all I have,” she answered, prying her eyes away from the man’s deformed hand and looking out to the horizon again. A thin smattering of trees led from the man’s hut to the river at the base of the hill, and she found herself hypnotized by the manner in which the trees softly danced this way and that in the wind. “All anyone has.”
“Sometimes that’s enough,” Parr suggested.
“Not for me,” she answered. “Not anymore.”
This time, it was Parr’s turn to cock an eyebrow. He had heard enough about the sheriff to find the declaration intriguing.
“Excuse me if I’m overstepping,” he said, in-between sips of his amber. “But what happened in St. Louis?”
Michelle looked up at him immediately. The mention of the city’s name hit her like a sledgehammer to the chest, and she suddenly found it difficult to breathe.
“You know I was in St. Louis?” she asked, not even noticing the poorly-lettered manner in which she phrased the question. He nodded his head, and she inferred from this that everyone knew she had been in St. Louis. Fortunately, though, more specific details of her acrimonious exit seemed to have been lost on the road from there to here, given that the strange, young man was asking her for them now.
And suddenly, under the power of some strange and inexplicable force that she couldn’t understand, she felt the words fall out of her mouth.
“It was eighteen months ago,” she began, slowly and painfully.
She remained pensive and silent for a moment. She wanted to turn back, to stop the tale’s progression in its infancy and return to the jailhouse and open the bottom desk drawer for her bottle. His whiskey was objectively better, but she found his company uneasy. The point of no return, however, had already been passed.
“I guess it started a few months before I left. I’d been there for half a decade. Carved out a pretty good reputation for myself, I guess, too. We’d just strung up a pair of rapists that had been plaguing the townships to the north of the city, and everyone was generally pretty high on me. Most respected in the sheriff’s department, no doubt. Not that this was much of an achievement. But still, I digress. It was about that time that the whorehouse attacks started. There were two in the south of the city to begin with, and I was sent up to talk to the working girls who’d survived it. I felt sure on the way up that it was some misogynist scum who’d faced rejection one too many times, but that was my first mistake. The first of many. It had been a gang of three women and a man, though the latter invariably stood as lookout whilst the girls entered the brothel. They hadn’t touched any of the clients. The leader - older than her followers, though still comely and with a wild look in her eyes, according to the reports - would fire once into the air and instruct them to leave. Then they would kill the madam, shoot two of the whores in the knees, set fire to the beds, and then leave. It was the same in both of the attacks, and everyone was pretty confident that it meant something. I wasn’t so sure, at least at first.
“It was around then that the priest first came to see me. They just called him The Crow, even to his face, because the young man followed death around as if fascinated by it. Thick Irish accent and a big grizzly beard, and twice the size of any man of the cloth I’d seen before. He would’ve been interesting if he wasn’t so Godly. He spoke at length about debauchery within the city. Of Sodom and Gomorrah, and all that sort of stuff. The whorehouses were his principal bugbear, and he spoke of the recent attacks as a modicum of revenge taken out by the divine. All sins must be purged, he would say. He said that a lot. I think he liked how the words felt on his tongue. The quickest way to stop whorehouses being attacked, he said, was to close all the whorehouses. I felt it was a drastic suggestion, and one that would prove immediately unpopular. And besides, I wasn’t a hypocrite, and had a whore all of my own.
“Her name was Belle, and she worked in a large, well-run place in a quiet part of the city somewhere to the West of the jailhouse. Belle was enough for any woman, and at times felt like two entirely separate entities. She would change with the weather, and for better or for worse a different girl would be waiting for my arrival after each long shift, after each new brothel attack. Sometimes, she would impetuously run to the door upon my arrival, throwing her arms and legs around me as soon as they swung open. At others, she would sit in her room and wait, staring patiently and pensievely at the moon. Often she would ask for news of the attacks, and would stare blankly past me as I engaged in this macabre pillow talk. I was not going to close the whorehouses, regardless of whether it was in my power to do so, because then how would I see Belle?
“The robberies continued, and Father Crow had started speaking at the doors of the brothels that had been attacked and ones that he thought might be next. His favourite topic was Sodom and Gomorrah, and sometimes he’d get as far as Lot and his daughters before one of the deputies ushered him away and told him he was disturbing the peace. It was, of course, well known that Father Vincent himself frequented some of the more ill-reputed establishments in the city, and if he were to practise what he preached then Sodom was a letter short. He spent a few nights in the jailhouse, but he saw himself as a messenger of God, and no length of internment would prevent him from spreading his truth. It was then that the church robberies started up, right alongside the brothel attacks. Almost all of the whorehouses in the city had been hit at least once, and the ones that reopened afterwards were promptly sabotaged again. Madam quickly became the most dangerous occupation in St. Louis. There were similar signs left at the churches. Windows were smashed. Money was taken. Most telling was the arson, though, which tied this rampage to the one that was driving through the heart of prostitution in the city.
“It had been happening four months by the time the rumours began to circulate. The madam of the brothel at which Belle, my Belle, was employed had begun to show wealth unbecoming of her profession. She’d bought a tavern along with a few properties in one of the slums in the north of the city, and fingers were being pointed. I asked Belle about it, and she told me that each night the madam would arrive with a new piece of gold on her hand or around her neck or hanging from her ears. It was the only thing the girls talked about, Belle said, and it appears that this wasn’t only with each other. They called her The Bandit Queen, and the moniker was deemed satisfying enough to coin generally around the city. Word spread that this upturn in fortunes had coincided with the beginning of the church robberies. This would make sense: nothing was ever taken from the brothels. Of course, the whorehouses had their share of damage, but this seemed out of spite more than for another’s material gain. It added up, and by this stage every whorehouse in the city except Belle’s had been hit at least once, and most twice or three times. It had been a long four months. People were ready for it to end, and wanted decisive action to be taken. It was all they would talk to me about. And back then I listened.
“On the night I walked into the whorehouse, three of the girls were dancing in the lounge as a man played and sang on an old and out of tune piano. Mimicking their own trademark, I shot once into the air, and told all of the men that they had ten seconds to leave, or the deputies outside would be taking them off to the jailhouse. The man on the piano was the first out of the door. They believed my bluff, but the girls were less convinced. They knew there was no appetite in the city for a raid on the whorehouse, the last whorehouse, despite all of the evidence pointing in its direction. A quiet solution was preferable, and everyone stood within the room knew that. Still, I was the one with the shooter in my hand.
“I asked the madam, The Bandit Queen, if she was going to give herself up. She smiled, and told me to go fuck myself. So I shot her in the knees, just like she had done to a dozen girls across St. Louis. I told the rest that they should deliver her to me at the jailhouse before midnight, or I’d be back for all of them.
“She was delivered to the jailhouse, but with her hands and feet bound and her throat cut from ear to ear. There was a note on her body, instructing me to deliver myself to the cemetery before midnight, or she’d be back for all of them.”
Michelle paused, and when she finally found the strength to continue, she found herself stood within the cemetery in St. Louis all over again...
Eighteen months earlier.
St. Louis, Illinois.
"she's my bandit queen, lain beneath the moon
in a bandit cave, a blanket laid for two
if I could find a way to your hideaway by the sea
o bandit queen, steal away to me.
"
The sheriff had come alone, as the note that was left on the madam’s body seemed to imply she should. Really, there was nobody in the department that she trusted. She worked it out on the way to the cemetery, and cursed herself for not doing so earlier. Of course, Belle waited for her there, a smile on her face and a gun at her hip.
All that Michelle could think to ask her was why, which was an inherently stupid question.
That was when Belle had laughed, the thin and high cackle that haunted the sheriff in her dreams, even now in Lonehill.
“Shit, because I can.”
Michelle steadily moved her hand towards her holster, but left her pistol within its sheath for now. This action did not go unnoticed. Belle smiled, and pushed her hair out of her eyes. The rain hammed down onto the earth around them, lightning illuminating the tombstones around them and heralding the thunder that would intermittently puncture the silence.
Finally, Belle went on.
“You know, you’ve brought this on yourself. Sticking your nose into business that self-evidently does not concern you. That has always been your problem. Your pride leads you into situations that you simply cannot come out of unscathed. You oscillate wildly: at first an all-encompassing superiority complex, the bubble finally breaking, giving way to wallowing and self-pity. But you are worthy of none of the pity you so readily deal yourself. It is your own hubris that puts you here, facing me and my pistol, your survival dependent and determined only by my whim. And if you’d just kept yourself to yourself, and investigated rapists away in the townships, you’d have been a hero. But now?”
The Bandit Queen slowly reached to her side, and the sheriff followed suit. They were perhaps twenty yards apart, and the land in-between them was flanked by tall and old tombstones, crumbling in the face of the immeasurable time yet before them. Thunder struck overhead. Belle smiled. Michelle had seen this smile before, but it was not the version that she enjoyed. Her eyes narrowed. Both of their eyes narrowed. Michelle’s fingers felt the hard, iron grip of her shooter.
High above, the clouds peeled back, and the moon poked its head over the scene, shining a spotlight onto the two protagonists as they prepared for their final battle.
Instinctively, her mind distracted by its otherworldly light, a sudden and contrasting appearance in the previously grim setting, Michelle’s eyes were lifted to behold the moon. The man upon its face smiled at her benevolently. Rain still lashed down upon them and around them.
And then Belle took out her pistol and shot the sheriff in the shoulder.
All of the air was driven out of Michelle, and instantly she found herself on one knee. She dropped her own pistol, and heard Belle cock hers again. The sheriff used one hand to cradle the wound and the other to feel around in front of her for some purchase, but the ground was soft and muddy from the rain, and she was soon flat on her stomach. Footsteps heralded her opponent’s approach.
The last thing she felt before she passed out was The Bandit Queen’s gun pressed tight against her temple, and then the weapon being withdrawn.
She had left St. Louis three days later, after waking up in the hospital.
***
"somewhere in a mountain, by a starry water fountain
in an alcove hid by some trees
amidst a pile of treasure, reclining at her leisure,
my lady-love sniffs at the breeze.
"
She had finished her glass twice over whilst telling the story, and Mr. Parr looked at her in an inquisitive (and not unkind) fashion. She looked only at the stars, transfixed upon them even through the snow that had begun gently falling during the tale. She felt a flake land on her nose. Suddenly anxious again, she absently scratched one of the points on her sheriff’s badge. She felt his eyes boring into her, and her emotional nakedness had her squirming under his relentless gaze.
“You don’t think I’m guilty,” Parr began, swirling the amber around in his glass before taking a long, thoughtful pull. “You know it. But you are doing all that you can to avoid the confrontation.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Michelle said, and in retrospect she felt both the words she chose and the delivery of them to be hollow.
“Yes, you are here,” he conceded, returning part of his attention to the preparation of a fresh bowl for his pipe. “But you are not here to confront me. I don’t imagine you’ve done any of that since you left St. Louis. You wear the badge, yes. The clothes. The shooter. The spurs. You certainly look the part, Michelle von Horrowitz. But this past few months, since my eye has - rather naturally, given the circumstances - been turned upon you, you have done everything but play the part. You drink, and you run, and you hide. And that’s about it. You know I’m guilty, and so does everybody else. But they don’t really care. All but for that idiot behind the bar in the saloon, who will soon realize that I will bring her the customers she desires, even without the new line. This is how they want to see me. And, more worryingly, perhaps, this is how they want to see you.”
Finally finding her courage, she turned to look him in the eye. He simply went on smiling. Dusk was now thick around them.
“What is your point?” she asked, regarding her empty glass and the fact that he had stopped refilling it.
“My point, sheriff, is that the time has come where you must make your choice. You can hide behind past failures, and put the state of Missouri between you and your memories. Hell, you could get on a boat and sail across the Pacific, if you wanted. Or you can finally face the truth, and do what needs to be done. What the office you hold insists you must do. I can’t decide for you. Fight, or flight. But what you’ve been doing? This lethargic middle ground? This just won’t do.”
With this, he poured them both a healthy measure of bourbon. He picked his glass up, tipped his hat at her and at the night, and then walked inside his house.
***
The horse slowly padded up the dirt track, and the young woman atop it swayed gently from side to side in the saddle, as if with the wind. The animal’s hooves left heavy imprints in the mud. The rider’s hat was pulled down low over her face, but if you could see beneath it you’d see a glum and acceptant countenance. She held the reins lethargically, somewhat slumped forward in the saddle with a posture that clearly depicted an apathetic dejection. She sighed heavily, and turned the horse around so that she could see the town once more. She ran her eyes over the smattering of houses that sat around the unused train station and the excessively large saloon. The only structure she had any semblance of feeling about was the undertaker’s, but that was for reasons entirely unrelated to her stay in Lonehill.
She reached for her chest, to stroke one of the points upon the star-shaped badge that had been attached to her waistcoat for years. She found herself grasping at the material of her clothing, and allowed her hand to return to the reins.
She turned the horse around once again and gently prodded the beast’s sides with her spurs. She rode at a trot around the brow of the hill, towards an uncertain horizon.
"and sitting up, she adjusts her turban, and takes another swig from a bottle of bourbon
and listening to the whistling of the train in station:
odds are it will never reach its destination.
'cause the bandit queen, astride her steed will ride.
o, let me be the one to lay within your thievin' arms tonight.
" |
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