|
XYZ
Jul 7, 2024 17:20:45 GMT
Post by The Golden One on Jul 7, 2024 17:20:45 GMT
Name: XYZ
Height: 5'11
Weight: 180
Age: 37
From: Sitka, Alaska
Alignment: Face
Rivals and current feuds: Kleio de Santos
Allies: Big Al (deceased imaginary friend), his mom, Sierra, Lizzy Golden, Frank, PacMan Bert, Christian Howard, Wild Jerry (who is mad at him), and all the XYZites throughout the world
FWA win-loss record: Decent number of wins and many more losses
FWA accomplishments: 1x FWA Tag Team Champion (w/ Lord Dog as Warriors of Virtue)
Style of wrestling: Unorthodox, high-flying, lots of kicks and strikes with the feet
Appearance: Medium-built, tone, sandy blonde/light brown hair down to the shoulders, black-and-white tattoos on the shoulders and biceps, long pants, wrestles bare foot, wears a green-and-black-colored piece of cloth that serves as his "cape"
Personality: Eccentric movements and talking patters, sometimes nonsensical when speaking, overall unorthodox lifestyle habits
Basic and advanced moves:
1. Vicious kicks to the thighs and shins repeatedly for 20 seconds
2. Standing dropkick to the chest after being brought to his feet
3. Head-scissors takedown after spinning 360 degrees in the air with the legs around the opponent's neck
4. Flying double knees to the chest from the top rope
5. Leg sweep into a quick leaping elbow drop to the chest
6. Springboard moonsault
7. Springboard moonsault fake out where XYZ flips back, lands on his feet, and then hits a quick standing senton
Finishing move: Front-Flip Springboard Leg Drop — but XYZ climbs to the top turnbuckle and tight-rope walks the ropes to get some bounce and momentum before leaping off
Common phrases: "The dream never dies."
Picture base: Dalton Castle
Entrance music for regular matches:
Entrance music for championship matches:
Introduction:
|
|
|
XYZ
Jul 7, 2024 17:25:12 GMT
Post by The Golden One on Jul 7, 2024 17:25:12 GMT
Epilogue of XYZ: Origin Story, Part I
There was a ferry boat floating by with lights all along the outer trim and music coming from on board. XYZ vividly remembers the ferry boat slowly floating by with one of those red wheels churning through the water to push the boat along. The red wheel made the ferry look old, but then again, the concept of a ferry boat is retro in its ethos.
The sky was visually in that night-time phase where the color was dark blue, not black. The stars were beginning to pop out of their inadvertent hiding, slipping between the silhouettes of grey clouds threatening a sprinkle or light shower. The sky was still a few hours from going full-on black, but the ferry boat’s lights were bright as can be, with envy-inducing laughter and chatter easily heard from the shore a few hundred feet away.
XYZ remembers the laughter ... because he wasn't feeling any desire to laugh when he spotted the ferry boat passing by.
"Mom ... where are we?"
XYZ wishes he never asked the question, because he didn't get a response. He, then age 9, stands outside of the car and scans the scene. The aforementioned ferry boat. The clouds in the sky. The voices and laughter. The waves of the water hitting against the docks and rocks and the pillars underneath the bridge that crosses the river. The slightly unpaved road with a pothole close to where the gravel goes under the bridge. The lack of street lights. The homeless person setting up camp for the night near the dock around 150 yards away. A single flower and random blades of grass scattered along the sidewalk next to the road, the sidewalk where the boy is standing. That ferry boat – venturing off the coast of the northwest coast of Sitka, Alaska.
XYZ remembers it all but he remembers the boat the most. He can even tell people 20 years later how many lights were on each level of the exterior.
Sixteen on the bottom, on the side the boy could see. Eleven on the second level. Seven on the top level.
"Take this. Take your bag."
The voice belonged to a woman, who handed a young boy a duffle bag looking like it weighed 20 pounds, even if it was closer to 10. The boy grabs it based solely off reacting to the command of a woman he knows well — and immediately lets it drop to the ground due to the weight. The boy looks down and then his face gets longer. The woman then pulls out a rope-looking object, which is a light green leash. Out comes a black labrador retriever appearing to weigh another 40-plus pounds. The feline’s wagging tail is the only happy emotion within 1,000 miles.
"Take Al’s leash, son."
The 9-year-old now has the leash in his hand — his grip subconsciously tight enough to make his hand sweat — and the pair duffel bag straps clamped together tightly in his other hand. Everything is tight due to fear — fear of what’s happening.
He stands on the side of the road and looks at the woman — presumably his mother — who refuses to return the gaze.
Woosh. Clamuck.
That was the closing of the driver’s side passenger door to a white Oldsmobile. Right before the mom gets into the passenger seat — with the occupant next to her hidden from sight — she pauses and looks forward, but with her eyes darting to her side as if she can feel her child's and the dog's eyes fixed on her and waiting for some sort of marching order.
Or just some words of comfort. Maybe a change of heart. Maybe something motherly.
"I need you to stay there, OK? Can you do that for me, honey?
...
Stay here for me, OK? If you leave, follow the stars.
You’re still my superhero."
When she lowered her head and closed the front passenger’s side door, the Oldsmobile sped away, zipping to 30 miles per hour within seconds. The boy watched the taillights shrink in the distance, until the car hit a 60-degree turn to the left and eventually was out of sight.
“You’re still my superhero.” Those words — spoken in May of 1996 — were the last words this 9-year-old boy ever heard from his mother.
XYZ goes through all of these memories, and the moments that followed, as he walks along the docks of the same river in 2017, approximately 21 years later. The waves crash into the rocks nearby and a car passes by with the headlights turned off as it winds along Halibut Point Road near the Sitka Ferry Terminal. The first newly built street light comes on to make existing along this street a little less daunting and risky. In its lowest brightness, a gold-yellow hue, XYZ notices that the day is turning to evening, with night soon to follow.
Skittish as hell, XYZ moves away from the water for fear of falling in as the waves increase in strength. Every now and then, he pretends like he is flying. He has this imagination that he is a superhero and moving through the air down to earth to save the world. Then he snaps out of the mental imagery and returns to his "normal state," which draws more fear of water and roads. XYZ has a tight figure with his arms crossed and walking right in the middle of the sidewalk since that's the safest place – that’s how he walked down the sidewalk all that time ago, with the only thing protecting XYZ being his dog.
|
|
|
XYZ
Jul 7, 2024 17:31:23 GMT
Post by The Golden One on Jul 7, 2024 17:31:23 GMT
"C ... Co ... Come ... on ... Ah … Ah … Al."
The black labrador is step for step with young XYZ. The sky is now pitch black. He's been outside on the road for what seems like two hours but it has really been just 40 minutes, although the first 35 were XYZ standing still and waiting for his mom to drive back and pick him up. Then he took off the way he came, going underneath the bridge. No one in sight. Not even cars passing by.
The night wind rustles the bushes and grass as XYZ walks by. A rat pops out of the sewer and makes XYZ jump back, falling down and whimpering. Shadow, the dog, barks and chases it off. Then XYZ lets it out, crying his eyes out until Shadow comes over to lick his face.
Even if the tears end, the fear never leaves him. XYZ walks all night, as far as he can. Everything scares him. The people he passes. The cars that zoom by. People ask him if he wants a ride, but XYZ always knew to always say no to rides from strangers. Even if they had nice cars. Every 40 feet the 9-year-old boy has to stop and put the duffel bag down. Then he gets going again when something scares him. It's too dark. There are no street lights. He can't see anything.
All he can do is look up into the sky, find one thing and walk toward it. XYZ continues his stroll on this cold morning in 2017, these memories from 1996 returning to him in a bit of an overwhelming rush. He had long-ago stored these experiences deep in the back, where cobwebs formed and no one had looked for years. XYZ even had forgotten their existence. He’s only now recollecting them due to a return to the setting, the water a triggering symbol for his mind. XYZ struggles quite a lot to separate fantasy from reality. He knows this to be true. It has been 21 years since he walked this pathway and 21 years since “something” happened to him that night – some sort of “trauma” he cannot explain due to the expertise needed in science and terminology. All he knows is he has often wondered if he should just “give in” to the episodes he experiences. They’re happier. They offer more freedom. They ignore society’s stigma – the wayward glances thrown in his direction. They allow him to do anything he wants. He’s on meds – has been since the ripe age of 11 – but nothing is permanent. Slowly – very slowly these past two decades – the fantasy side has overtaken reality like a tumor expanding through body tissue. XYZ doesn’t even remember his real name. What he thinks of most … is the sun and the stars. Especially the stars.
The pre-Internet era of human existence seems like centuries ago. In reality — a touchy word in this story — it was only decades ago. Only 30 or 40 years ago. Few households had a computer connection to the World Wide Web at the end of the 1990s. And the internet was a shallow place for researching different medical conditions, issues, or worries. The idea of WebMD was still years away. When you search the phrase, "Can children get psychosis?" the first answer popping up is from the Nationwide Children's Hospital website. "Childhood psychosis is extremely rare," the Google snippet listing states. Then a bunch more information about the symptoms and effects. In May of 1998, a woman with unkempt hair and a worried expression didn't have this ease of access to answer her question. She relied on making a doctor's appointment and a doctor's visit. She struggled through nurses testing a young child sitting next to her, a child of age 11. "Can children really get psychosis?"The doctor's answer vaguely mirrored the one you'd find now in 2021. "Well, yes. It doesn't happen often. It's not something that occurs from birth. It has to be a very severe traumatic event. Something that is long-term debilitating. It usually doesn't occur until teenage or young adulthood. It's very rare for children of his age.
You mentioned his parents abandoned him a year ago?"The "his" and "he" referred to by the doctor is a boy with bulging blue eyes and curly light brown hair. His skin is pale, freckles across his arms and scattered on his nose. He remains quiet throughout the conversation, swinging his legs from the edge of the doctor's table, his eyes wandering through the ceiling tiles above. He has a cape, really just a purple cloth, tied around his neck and hanging behind his back. "A couple years ago.""Mhm.""They left him on the street and he made his way 2.5 miles in the dead of night to my orphanage.""Enough to be considered severe trauma."A better view of the doctor's office: The table with the boy swinging his legs has the usual black padding for semi-comfort. The white walls and ceiling and strong lighting creates sort of a purgatory feeling, like a middle ground train station aura. The doctor's desk includes a sink on the right side and a small table with a large computer monitor, one of those oversized bulky ones that look like they could be mistaken for tube televisions if not for the big power button in the very center of the plastic horizontal bottom, below the actual screen. The doctor is sitting on one of those circular chairs that has no backrest, with four legs and bars connecting them. The woman sits on a square chair with a plastic seat and backrest, her back nearly touching the wall. The light brown wooden door is on the wall opposite the desk, adjacent left to the patient table, and just off the right elbow from the concerned woman. "Psychosis is a symptom of schizophrenia. It's characterized by delusions and hallucinations. You've described him to speak of having some magical powers, and of another world, another universe, correct?"The lady pauses, her lip quivering as she tries to answer. "He says ..."She pauses again, her voice cracking under the pressure of the question and the attention of the doctor's not-great bedside manner. "He says he has power from the stars and the moon and the sun.""It's not uncommon for young children, especially boys, to create fantasy worlds for themselves. I think we need to continue seeing him, continue monitoring him, and he may ... and I hate to use this phrase ...grow out of it."The woman is unsatisfied by this answer, darting her eyes to the side and down to the ground. She sniffles and shakes her head, trying to stay composed amid the doctor's apparent lack of compassion or, more importantly, urgency. "I do not agree, but I will continue to keep an eye on him and ...
trust your judgment. I hope you're right."Little did the doctor know, though, that this wasn't something to grow out of. The woman didn't know, either, but she knew more than the doctor. She just wasn't explaining the boy's trauma properly. When the boy's mother dropped him off on the sidewalk at approximately 10 o'clock at night two years ago, she said to follow the stars. It wasn't meant to lead him anywhere in particular, just comfort. She said to look for the moon above. She also said the boy will always be her sunlight, a hollow expression of sympathy for a child you're leaving deserted in the middle of a city's suburb. The boy was left with a dog — his dog — and two blankets, one in hand and one tied around his neck loosely. He had nothing left. The dog was large and black, a labrador retriever named "Al". The family called him "Big Al" because of his ... larger ... size. The dog stood by the boy's side no matter what, followed him everywhere, played with him all day, and protected him relentlessly. Even bit the mailman and a few of the mother's friends and family. So it was only fitting to leave Al with the boy for protection. "You're still my superhero," the mom said as the car, which she wasn't driving, accelerated away down the poorly lit road, under a tunnel, and to the other side, eventually gone from sight in a thick fog aside from one working red tail light. So they walked, aimlessly through the night, only arriving at the front of an orphanage early the next morning. The boy didn't intend to stop, but the woman sweeping the front porch of her mostly vacant orphanage — an orphanage she planned to close in the coming months due to her old age and desire for retirement — couldn't let the boy and dog continue on. She called the police. That led to nothing, as the mother fell off the face of the earth. When they found her months later, she died of a drug overdose. The woman at the orphanage took the boy and dog in, but she knew there were some mental issues. This is now the fourth doctor's visit, resulting in the same as the first two. "Wait and see."She has been waiting and seeing for the past 23 months. The boy was 9 years old, well-aged to remember events. He's now 11, aged enough to let those experiences dovetail into something ... more. "So come back in a few weeks. We'll check on him again."The doctor looks at the patient paperwork, the usual clipboard full of paper-clipped papers that legal guardians must complete. "I see his name is ...""Yes but he likes to be called ... I put it there at the end.""X ... YZ?""Yes. That's what he calls himself.""Do you know what that's from?""That's his superhero name. He doesn't respond to anything else.""Mmmh...
The way we can tell if he is experiencing psychosis is whether or not he believes in ... what he says. He will have ... visions ... or delusions. He may believe he's in ... unrealistic situations. Maybe space, perhaps. Or fighting criminals and villains. Many boys make-believe this type of scenario but they're grounded in reality enough to realize it's all fantasy. They snap from it upon their mother or father, or in your case legal guardian, calling hem for supper.""Yeah, he seems to never snap from it. Well ... rarely. Very rarely.""Mmm... yes, well, we will look into whether he's just being ...
just a little boy playing make-believe to forget about some of his past."
XYZ did not “grow out of it.” He might’ve been “just a little boy playing make-believe to forget about some of his past,” but that game of make-believe never ended. Not when he turned 13 and was supposed to go to high school. Not when he turned 16 and was directed to homeschooling for the remainder of his childhood. Not when he turned 20 and attempted – a failed attempt – at college. Not when he turned 24 and tried “dating” online. Not now, either, at the age of 26, as he’s walking along this sidewalk and reliving the moments of when his life and mind forever took a sharp right turn unexpectedly. He tried 10 different prescription drugs for psychosis and event-induced schizophrenia, met 14 different doctors, and lived in four foster homes. Nothing worked permanently, and only some worked temporarily. His name was still XYZ. He still wishes his dog, Big Al, was alive. He’s never had a best friend as loyal and dedicated as that labrador. So on this day – an unassuming one in early 2017 – he decides to let go of what people and society expects of him. Like a hand losing grip of a rope, reality slowly trickles away. XYZ, wearing a teal cape tied around his neck, flies away. |
|
|
XYZ
Jul 7, 2024 17:41:05 GMT
Post by The Golden One on Jul 7, 2024 17:41:05 GMT
September 22, 1998
11-year-old XYZ is sitting in the room of his foster home. It’s the beginning of 5th grade, but it’s Tuesday afternoon. You know what that means?
Tuesday afternoon around this time in 1998? That’s the time Pokemon: Indigo League would air new episodes in the United States and Canada. September 22, 1998 was a particularly important episode, too.
Young XYZ sat with his green cape tied around his neck and his black labrador retriever, Big Al, sitting right next to him like a real good boi. Big Al was incredibly loyal and patient. He would sit right next to XYZ and watch Pokemon with him just to make sure XYZ wasn’t alone.
Every Tuesday around this time, XYZ would take 30 minutes and religiously watch. Kids at his school watched as well. They all collected the cards, too. They played the Gameboy game. It was an entire culture.
XYZ wasn’t collecting the cards. He wasn’t playing the Gameboy video game. He only cared about the TV series. Every Tuesday. He’d wait all week for these 30 minutes.
But this particular episode really hit home.
“Charmander — The Stray Pokemon” was the episode’s title. If you’ve seen it, then you remember it. You know exactly why this episode was particularly poignant for the story of a little kid with childhood psychosis who ended up with this disorder because he was left on the side of the road with nothing but Big Al, the leash connecting him and Big Al, and a duffle bag.
"You’re still my superhero,” his mom said to him, the last thing she said to him. We’ve already told the specifics of this story. There’s no need to relive the details of XYZ’s trauma. Just this line, because …
“That thing is so stupid!” Damian says to his group of trainer buddies. “No matter what I do to it, it keeps on following me.”
XYZ wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t ready to feel the connection to Charmander — the shared experiences. XYZ wasn’t ready to relive that night — in 1996 — in his head. His memories all flood back. He had repressed them via his psychosis and superhero alternative personality, which ruled most of his time and thoughts. Not these 30 minutes, though. Even though he still wore his green cape, XYZ was more or less a “regular”, untroubled 11-year-old kid for this period of time every Tuesday afternoon.
At some point, near the end of the episode, Big Al begins coughing. It is the first sign of any health issues for the double-digit-years-old dog. Little did XYZ know, Big Al only had a few months left due to lung cancer, which is rare for canines but can happen. It was probably because of all the fried food bits and crumbs and leftovers XYZ would feed Big Al during and after dinner. Or maybe it was a random genetic mutation.
Whatever the cause, the result was heartbreaking for XYZ. This was more trauma. He didn’t recover after his mom abandoned him. He didn’t recover when Big Al simply couldn’t hold on any longer.
XYZ, at age 12, felt — and, in many ways, was — alone.
Dr. Moss Gran sits on his doctor’s stool — one of those round stools with no backing. It’s mostly meant for short-term sitting, offering an ability to sit upright and be professional. He looks through a few sheets of paper huddled in a manila folder. Dr. Gran is in his mid-fifties in age, with a white scruffy beard that fills nearly his entire bottom third of his face. His white mustache is full as well, and his bold glasses slowly drop to the edge of his nose every 15 seconds.
The snow-white curly hair is longer than you’d expect for a cancer doctor, but he makes it work. The hair curls down to his back collar, which is white in color to fit the cliche of doctors in their usual robes.
Narrator (voice-over): “Now, usually y’all are joinin’ me in the adventures of ‘ole XYZ. To be fair, those are the adventures of note thus far. But I’d be remiss if we didn’t start today’s look-see inside a doctor’s office, checkin’ in on one of XYZ’s best pals in the world, Big Al.
It ain’t a happy trip to the doctor for the big man. Oh no. And, well, what’s worse is … I dunno if ‘ole XYZ even has a clue about this.”
Dr. Gran suddenly takes one of the thick sheets of paper out and sticks it to a white board along the wall. The board has a white light that shines into the back of the photo, revealing some imaging scan. Dr. Gran then sticks another right next to it. The whole scene feels like a stereotypical serious trip to a doctor’s office for a major medical issue.
Big Al, sitting alone on the edge of the brown-padded patient bed, watches intently. Dr. Gran sticks a third one on the wall with the bright lights and then begins talking, proving why he’s a thoracic oncologist with a speciality in lungs.
Dr. Gran, working out of Mount Sinai Hospital, speaks with an Irish accent befitting of his New York City roots.
“Al, right?”
“Yah, but people call me Big Al.”
“Which people?”
“Well, just one. I only know one person.”
“He couldn’t be here?”
“Well, he … I … he doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Mhmmm.”
Dr. Gran then looks at the images and points to the first one.
“This right here is a view of a healthy set of lungs.”
Then he points to the second one, specifically at an area with what looks like a big black mark on it.
“This is your left lung. Do you see this big black mark? That’s a tumor. A pretty big tumor. You also see these little marks. Those are smaller tumors and some cells that may form small tumors. Your left lung is pretty overrun with cancer.”
Then he points to the third photo.
“This is a scan of your right lung. You can see that the big tumor is expanding closer and closer to your right lung. The area in between your lungs is called the mediastinum. There is muscle and tissue in there. The tumor is expanding there and might spread to lymph nodes.”
“Umm … is that what the coughing has been?”
“Yes. You’ve also had some issues breathing, right? That’s because you have pressure on your lungs. They can’t expand as much as they need.”
“So I have cancer…”
“Stage 3 lung cancer. Non-small-cell lung cancer, which is better for you.”
“Well, I guess that’s good news.”
“The really good news is we can treat it. Here.”
“Right now? I’ll do anything. I’ll do it now.”
“No, not now. We are going to try for surgery. The problem is your weight, Big Al. You aren’t the healthiest person in the world. You don’t eat well, either.”
“I’m trying to eat better. I was eating Popeyes a lot. Now I’m eating Subway a lot.”
“Well … that’s a start. Try some fruits, too.”
“Right.”
“Do you exercise?”
“No. I mean … I wanted to be a wrestler, but it never happened.”
“I understand. Well … we need you a little healthier, because the lung cancer surgery you’ll have would remove your entire left lung. And that’s pretty significant. You won’t get a new one. You’ll just have to live with one lung. Not many can do it. Only people in good physical shape and fitness can.”
“Okay. Do I need to lose weight?”
“You weigh 320 pounds right now. I need you at around 270.”
There’s a long pause and a long, distraught look on Big Al’s face. He’s obviously wondering how he’ll lose 50 pounds in time to have surgery to save his life.
“I also need you to pass a physical fitness test. So we need to get your strength and endurance up. Walk regularly. Weight training. Maybe some yoga? Eventually get up to some jogging and aerobics. Swimming is good.”
“Swimming is good,” Big Al repeats, his mind racing in an overwhelmed state as he doesn’t fully compute what Dr. Gran is saying to him.
Dr. Gran tilts his head and dips it down a bit to get into Big Al’s dazed line of sight. He isn’t fixated on anything in particular, just looking and thinking.
“Al?”
“Hmmm … yes?”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m … um … I guess I have to tell my friend about this.”
“You should. You’ll need someone to help after surgery. Also, we’ll probably do chemotherapy before and after, just to help with these small cells and tumors. They may be beyond the lung. You have to do this to be safe.”
“Right.”
“Well … Big Al … I am sorry to give you this news, but you have a shot. Will you try? We need you to get in shape for this. So I won’t schedule a date for the surgery. But the longer it goes, the more the cancer may spread. And you might miss your chance. We’ll start with chemotherapy in the next week or so. That will help get the weight down, but you need to eat and exercise. Alright?”
Big Al is once again just blankly staring.
“Alright?!”
“Yes … yes. Thank you. I’ll do what I can do try."
“Alright. … I’ll do what I can to help. Big Al … I would tell your friend. Tell friends and family. Lean on them.”
Narrator (voice-over): “The thing is, his friend already knew. ‘Ole XYZ was doin’ his thang up in space and takin’ in the sights of earth from a safe distance when he juuuust so happened to …
Ahhh forget it. I ain’t gonna lie to y’all. XYZ was spyin’ on Big Al. He’s been a little suspicious of Big Al ever since he started coughin’ a lot. Reminded XYZ of his dog a few years back. Sad story. Anyways…”
The junkyard-hidden old Magic School Bus chugs along in outer space once more, with the red magnets and green stars decorating the chipped yellow paint of the forgotten kids TV series hallmark.
But rather than heading off to some remote planet for some people- or thing-saving mission, XYZ is sitting in a stalled Magic School Bus watching with binoculars as Big Al meets with Dr. Moss Gran in his office.
“How could Big Al do this? How could he lie?” XYZ thinks to himself.
In this moment, he feels abandoned yet again — and Big Al hasn’t officially left him or anything. Big Al is trying to take care of himself, but XYZ feels alone. Very alone. He can’t trust his best friend’s words. And who knows how long he’ll have Big Al around!
XYZ’s mood is quite low, and whenever he is sad, he busts out his Gameboy Color for Pokemon Red.
The current save has him in Fuschia City and about to face Koga for the Soul Badge. He always chooses Charmander at the start. He always keeps Charmander on his person as his main Pokemon for battles. No exceptions. Charmander rules. This is a motto XYZ has used ever since he first watched the Charmander episode.
Suddenly, the entire bus rocks violently. XYZ is jolted from his driver’s seat and thrown to the floor of the Magic School Bus. Still wearing his green cape with his long curly hair coming down to his neck, XYZ immediately crawls toward the nearest door window panels and looks out into space. The stars and space rocks nearby separate earth from its moon — or the one moon we know about.
But the beauty of the space rocks and the glow of the earth’s moon distracts XYZ from an orange glow getting bigger and bigger until finally blasting right into the side of the Magic School Bus!
XYZ is once again thrown backwards, his back now pressed against one of the seat cushions in the front row of the bus.
“Must be some Curds!”
Sure enough, the shadow of a spacecraft comes into view. XYZ’s eyes widen as he watches the shadow completely dwarf his puny little Magic School Bus floating out in the nearby atmosphere near earth.
Curds are space wanderers who spread to areas and kill or recruit to their ranks. It’s a join-or-die system. XYZ has often been a foil to them.
Narrator (voice-over): “Uh oh. XYZ has got himself into another pickle here, boys ‘n gals. Let’s hope he can find a way out’ta this.”
So when the Curds have swarmed XYZ’s Magic School Bus and boarded it, the group is quite proud and hopeful for a final ending to XYZ’s stubbornness.
Curd Assistant #3: “I do not think we should kill him in private. It deserves an audience!”
Curd Assistant #4: “The longer we wait, the more opportunity he has to escape, like he has before!”
Curd Assistant #2: “I heard he’s back doing his wrestling thing again.”
There’s a sea of laughter among five of the six Curds who have boarded the Magic School Bus. There’s one in the shadows, hanging in the back of the Bus, without even the slightest laugh given.
Curd Assistant #1: “Wrestling. HAH! It has distracted him. It kept his guard down. And here we are. No more XYZ saving little puny Biscottios on Planet Zulpos. Or saving treetos on Planet C432.
All we hear is ‘XYZ this’ and “XYZ that’ because XYZ is the savior of the little guys in the galaxy.”
More laughter from these ill-appearing space beasts with their orange teeth showing amid every hearty chuckle. The moles and craters on their gray skin are pockets of dirt and grime. Sometimes they eat bugs — even butterflies — and leave the wing crumbs for later on their faces.
One of them reaches down and picks up XYZ’s Gameboy Color, which somehow survived two blasts from the Curds ship.
Curds Assistant #2: “Oh look. XYZ plays Pokemon. He picks the WORST Pokemon character.”
Curds Assistant #4: “Who? Charmander?!”
They all laugh in unison knowing the answer is, in fact, Charmander.
“LOOK AT HIM! LOOK AT HOW SMALL AND WEAK CHARMANDER IS!”
“It makes sense! He and XYZ are perfect for each other!”
“Both abandoned. Both forgotten about.”
“XYZ, you should’ve died the night your mom left you … just like Charmander should’ve died after Damian left him.”
This statement really gets under XYZ’s skin. He tries to break free from the tight grips of the Curds holding him belly-down into the floor of the Magic School Bus. Despite his best efforts, he can’t escape.
Curd Assistant #1: “You weren’t going to beat Alyster Black and Harry, either. You were never going to win a championship on your own in the FWA. You’re not good enough. You never were. You’re not a superhero. You’re not a hero at all. You are nothing — less than nothing. And you deserve to die. We won’t even offer you the chance to join up with the Curds like we usually do with people. You’re just going to die. Finally. And this stupid School Bus will be torn apart.”
Curd Assistant #3: “XYZ, you aren’t a savior. You aren’t anything. You’re a Charmander-loving loser. You’re a weak-loving loser. You love weakness. You love weak people. Because you ARE weak. Your mom left you because you are weak. You have no friends because you can’t help anyone.
You’re just …”
Curd Assistant #4: “You’re just … a human.”
They all laugh together as XYZ once again struggles to get free but cannot. He then looks down at the floor in a defeated way — almost in tears.
“Just … human.”
The deep, menacing, intimidating voice of the lead Curd bellows from the back of the Magic School Bus and silences the assistants’ laughter.
“That’s certainly right, Curd Assistant #4. XYZ is … just … human.
He’s too weak. He’s too frail. He’s too STUPID. And he has stood opposed to us for too long. Without him, there will be NOTHING stopping us from doing whatever we want. Because we are … the Curds.
And no human … can stand in the way.”
XYZ is suddenly tearing up. He’s feeling all the emotions in this moment. He feels he finally has lost — has let so many people and things and beings down.
“No human as weak as yourself can stand up to us. You’re not successful. You win little battles. Do you ever win the war? Do you ever come through with the big victory, XYZ? No. This is why people pick on you. It’s why Kleio de Santos picks on you. She sees an easy mark.
And yes, I watch FWA from our ship. We get good internet streaming service.
Alyster Black doesn’t pay you any attention because you’re not worth it. If Kleio can bully you, then you are no threat to him.
He will pay attention to Harry because Harry defended the Gauntlet Championship five times. FIVE TIMES. Harry is a little boy wizard and even he carries more respect and GUSTO than mighty XYZ.”
More laughter from the Curds gang. It’s quite odd that the lead Curds member can recite so much knowledge about the FWA, but maybe the streaming service and connection really is good wherever they are at that time.
“You’re just a human … and much worse … you’re a weak human at that. I know those Biscottios and treetos and space elks would much prefer Alyster Black or Harry the Sane Wizard or even Kleio de Santos coming to save them over XYZ!”
XYZ then remembers something his mom said to him the night she left. He’ll always be her superhero. Even though she abandoned him and left a scar on his heart, XYZ still cannot hate his mom.
She did what she had to do in that moment. He doesn’t understand it, but he isn’t her. And he isn’t in her shoes. Or wasn’t in them. He just knows his mom loved him.
And he knows Big Al loves him.
And he knows the treetos appreciate him. And the little mice he saved recently on Planet Boop.
And he knows the FWA fans appreciate him. They want him. They enjoy him.
Because he is him.
XYZ suddenly tries one more time to break free from the grips of his attackers. He closes his eyes and gives all his might. He opens his eyes to the sound of Curds being tossed backwards into the sides of the Magic School Bus. When XYZ gets up, he thinks his mental energy to succeed somehow magically fended the gang off.
But then he turns and sees his trusty sidekick and best friend, Big Al, throwing Curds Assistant #5 out of the Magic School Bus doors and into outer space. One of those fading “wooooooooooooaaaaaaaaa” is heard from the Curds Assistant. And this was the last of the assistants dispatched from the Magic School Bus.
The only one left is the leader. He has fallen to his knees in front of both XYZ — standing proudly with his cape tied around his neck — and Big Al, who has the last bite of a Subway sub in his left hand.
“I am human.
And that is enough.
I … am … enough.
And as long as I have someone like Big Al on my side — and people in my corner — I will never relent.
THE THUNDERBOLTS OF THE UNIVERSE RAIN DOWN ON YOU TODAY, CURDS LEADER! THEY RAIN DOWN HARD! THIS IS NO PARTY OF THE WICKED! THIS IS NO SALVATION OF THE IMPURE! THIS IS YOUR CALLING HOUR! THIS IS THE MOMENT I SHOW YOU EXACTLY WHAT IS COURSING THROUGH MY VEINS AND IN MY HEART AND SOUL! DO YOU WANT TO SEE IT FULLY?! DO YOU WANT TO KNOW IT TRULY?!”
XYZ’s energy levels are rising and Big Al is wide-eyed as he takes the last Subway bite.
“You can’t. You can’t HANDLE … that … love.
I have love. I have … people. I fight for them. I have … beings.
I fight for them.
I have a friend.”
XYZ turns to Big Al and smiles.
“I fight for him.
And the next time you see me, Curds Leader, I may be a few pounds heavier.
Because I fight to be a champion that people will look up to and ADMIRE.
They will see … a superhero.
Just like someone else saw … so many years ago.
Superheroes like me … can fly. And we can run. And swim. And climb. And lift.”
Curds Leader: “I can do those things, too, though.”
“BUT YOU DON’T DO THEM WITH THE SOURCE OF THE EONS BEHIND YOU! YOU DON’T DO THOSE THINGS WITH THE POWER OF THE MOONS OVER YOUR HEAD! I HAVE SEVENTEEN MOONS JUST BIG ENOUGH TO FIT THEIR ENERGY INTO ONE OF MY FINGERS! THE BREATH OF THE WATER AND THE WHISPER OF THE OAKS … CARRY ME … TO FALLOUT 014! THEY CARRY ME ON TILTED LADDERS! SHOWER ME WITH THE REMNANTS OF PLANETS LOST TO THE ORCHARDS OF TIME! THE FLOWERS BLOOM A NEW HORIZON! LET THIS BE MY INNER PEACE … EMERGING FROM BATTLE … TO LEAD THE ABANDONED TO THEIR NEW HOMES!”
XYZ smiles as he grabs the Curds Leader by his collar and lifts him up to face him eye to eye.
“Will all of this be enough … against Alyster Black … and Harry the Sane Wizard?
I don’t know.
I’m only human, like you said.
But I am one human … who has come A LOOOOOONG WAY.
I SPEAK FIRE. I HAVE THE RAGE OF A DRAGON! I AM SWIFT WITH A SEISMIC TOSS! I AM CHARMANDER.
Alyster Black might be Bulbasaur. Harry might be Squirtle. Both of them might be rock Pokemon. I might be in real trouble.
Or …
Maybe not.”
XYZ then throws the Curds Leader out of the Magic School Bus and into space — joining him with the rest of his gang. Big Al offers a soft pat on the shoulder as XYZ wipes his hands clean in three dramatic smacks.
“You and I have to talk, you know?” XYZ says, looking up to the gigantic Big Al standing behind him.
“About what?!” Big Al says back.
“You know, Big Al. Don’t play coy.”
“Are you serious?! You used your binoculars to spy on me AGAIN?!”
“That’s not what’s important. What’s important is you didn’t tell me about this.”
“Well … I mean … what do you expect?” Big Al says, his voice fading out. The Magic School Bus putters along in space with gray smoke puffing out of the exhaust pipe in the back of the vehicle.
Narrator (voice-over): “Well … it seems our good ‘ole pal XYZ has escaped danger yet again. Now he’s off to Fallout 014 to fight for the X Championship. Who knows what this ‘lil fella is gonna find himself in next time. Maybe he’ll be X Champion when we hop back in that ‘ole school bus again. Maybe not. Bettin’ money says not, but XYZ was never a gamblin’ man. Neither was I, really.”
The last we see is the bus appearing as a small yellow dot — getting smaller and smaller — fading into the forever blackness that is outer space, with planet earth nearby and soon to be the next stop along the eventful journey for XYZ and Big Al.
|
|
|
XYZ
Jul 7, 2024 17:43:38 GMT
Post by The Golden One on Jul 7, 2024 17:43:38 GMT
A breeze rips through Lake Eola in downtown Orlando, where XYZ is currently sitting under a gazebo next to the lake. The weather in Central Florida in November is ideal, a cool 68 degrees with scattered clouds that cannot hide the bright Florida sunlight.
XYZ is wearing his usual attire, a green cape tied around his neck, plus a plain white T-shirt with sparkling rainbow glitter. He also has short running shorts going down half his thighs. The entire “look” is silly, but X doesn’t really give it much thought.
His mind is elsewhere, particularly on the person he’s to meet. X looks contemplative, his eyes staring down to his birkenstock sandals before gazing at the swans floating nearby in the lake. Then he looks out to the north of the lake, where XYZ spots the nearly broken-down Magic School Bus parked in the grass under the most-northward oak tree in Lake Eola park. No one in the park seems to mind this rusty and paint-scraped school bus parked in the grass, obviously illegal, and separate from the nearby street parking. It stands out like a sore thumb, but no one pays any attention. X chalks it up to people choosing to ignore it. Maybe it’s just too outlandish and awkward for them to face it directly.
Again, XYZ thinks about the man he’s supposed to meet. Any second now.
As if the timing was planned, X perks up as he looks out across the nearby grass field. Walking towards him is a familiar face. Separating this person and X is a walking path filled with Sunday morning walkers in Orlando. The person coming toward XYZ seems to glide through the crowd of walkers going directionally across from him. The crowd doesn’t slow his momentum, almost like he’s a ghost moving through the bodies of walkers, but more likely someone excitedly and quickly maneuvering through a crowd with an intent focus on reaching a destination.
“Big AL! My friend! My comrade! The original XYZite!”
“X! It’s good to see you. Been a while.”
Big Al and X embrace under the gazebo. A few of the walkers glance towards the pair but continue on, whispering to one another if they are in a pair or group.
Big Al looks quite thin, at least in comparison to how he looked the last time we saw him. It’s quite understandable, though, considering Big Al finished 12 rounds of chemotherapy for lung cancer. Remarkably, the chemotherapy worked! The cancer shrank enough for surgery.
Then the surgery happened. Big Al got two lobes of his right lung removed, with doctors taking out an entire chunk of diseased tissue. There were no more signs of cancer. The disease was “in remission,” to use medical terminology.
Big Al is on his way to being a cancer survivor! He dropped more than 55 pounds since the start of his chemotherapy. He was down from 364 pounds to a slim 306!
And he had no desire of returning to his previous weight. Big Al was in the gym or on the treadmill five days a week, trying to rebuild his energy and strength after surgery. Big Al’s main concern is a lack of breath, especially when trying to work out or walk on the treadmill, but doctors say this is common for people after lung surgery.
“X, I can’t thank you enough for bein’ a friend and bein’ supportive. You called every day. You texted every day. You offered to come with me to doctor visits. You told me what to ask about and how I should prepare for stuff.
Without you, I couldn’t have made it.”
XYZ feels a sense of companionship toward Big Al like never before. Big Al’s words to him and his depiction of the importance of XYZ’s friendship is making X appreciate Big Al’s place in his life. XYZ just wants to be wanted – doesn’t everyone? – and wants to feel he is having an impact on people’s lives. Big Al expressed to him, emphatically, that X is having a major positive impact.
XYZ needs Big Al because he needs someone to need him. Big Al needs X, so X needs Big Al for that reason.
And others.
X wasn’t the only one offering companionship and help and advice. Big Al was doing the same. Big Al’s loyalty the past few weeks has not gone unnoticed. X has fallen into a bit of a rut in the FWA, taking a few losses in consecutive matches, after nearly winning the X Championship on two occasions against Alyster Black.
X feels out of place, again, in the FWA, largely because he doesn’t have Big Al every day as a stable presence. He doesn’t feel as confident to go into interstellar fights with muckrats and dingbots on other planets and in other solar systems without Big Al’s aide.
And he doesn’t feel he is full or complete enough to compete at the highest level in the FWA.
So, XYZ doesn’t just need Big Al because X wants to feel needed. He needs Big Al because Big Al is needed. Big Al is X’s best friend. And while he has been land-locked undergoing chemotherapy to treat his lung cancer, and while he had been preparing for and having surgery done to remove two lobes of his right lung, Big Al has not been able to join X.
“Nate Savage, huh?”
“I feel like I haven’t been whole, Al, since you’ve been … away. Now I feel like the air is back in the gulf of the sands. I feel the turtles have their full shells. I feel the fur is back on the brown grizzly bears. The tree bark is thick and sturdy. The burger is meaty. The lightning bolt is zapped with electricity of ten thousand countries from different light years.
I feel right, Al. I feel like a friend has returned to my side. There is a feeling like a goat who can spit fire. I have a desire to soar a rocket ship deep into the heart of the earth.
So, yeah, Nate Savage.”
“Nate Savage is getting your X Championship shot.”
“Nate Savage is keeping it warm.
With Big Al back and the cancer gone … there’s a sense of everything just … glowing. The earth is downhill now. I can sprint as fast as the jaguar with eight legs! I can LEAP … over entire MOUNTAINS FILLED WITH SANDSTONES FROM THE MAGNA CARTA!”
“I get it, X. I get it. You’re happy I’m back.”
“I’m happy the XYZites are in full form. Do you know Jeremy Best and his … troubles with the Undisputed Alliance?”
“I’ve kept up, X.”
“Then we do this for you … for Jeremy … and for a message: that the world will turn back our way. It will turn back the way of the downtrodden, of the men and women and children and sheep and spiders and particles and red-headed cranes who cannot get an edge in this world. It’s for all of us looking for a light amid the consistent darkness.
This is for … the electrical car that can create gasoline in its trunk. So fly with me and the dolphins, Big Al. Fly with me once again. Win or lose on Fallout, we will let the world know that we are back to our true Charizard form when we face Nate Savage.”
“I’m in, X.
And I’m not going anywhere.”
|
|
|
XYZ
Jul 7, 2024 17:43:54 GMT
Post by The Golden One on Jul 7, 2024 17:43:54 GMT
Fallout shifts to a backstage setting where the eccentric XYZ stands in front of the camera with a long green bathrobe hovering over his shoulders and down his back and sides. He has wrestling shorts on despite not being booked for Fallout, and there’s a black cloth tied around his neck as a makeshift cape. XYZ’s curly light brown hair dangles over his bug eyes as he focuses intently on the camera in front of him.
Katie Lynn Goldsmith stands next to XYZ, who could look to his left and find his trusted friend and the original XYZite Big Al hovering as a safe protector with his muscular arms folded across his chest.
Katie Baxter: "XYZ, we are on Fallout, which you are not booked to compete. Yet, you are dressed to compete. Why?"[/color]
XYZ: "Why? Why, oh why? Easy, my darling sunflower. The answer is easy. In this ongoing battle, you have to be ready AT ALLLLLL TIMES! You have to be primed and prepared for any movement, any advancement, by the dark forces trying to RIP US APART! They are trying to tear our pact in half, Katie Lynn. They are trying to break us … from the insides.
And we cannot let that happen!"
The crowd cheers XYZ’s erratic-yet-inspirational speech, albeit with possibly no real purpose.
XYZ: "I have been to other galaxies, dimensions, and the like."
Allen Price: "Dimensions?!"
XYZ: "I have seen what’s out there. I know what moves … in the shadows. It’s an evil without a face or arms or legs or a nose or hair or a mouth or a belly or a belly button or fingers or a butt or a penis or a vagina or toes or ankles or kneecaps or ribs or lungs or ovaries or testicles or a neck or shoulders or nipples."
Allen Price: "Did he say ‘nipples’?"
XYZ: "Katie Lynn, and EVERYONE ELSE, we need to be prepared for this evil. We need to be prepared for this danger … lurking. This danger is greed. It is selfishness. It is self-righteousness. It is pity. It is jealousy. It is revenge. It is envy. It is … avarice. It is … egotism. It is … comfort … in the way things are … and a refusal to consider … a change of the course of mankind as a whole.
This evil is what makes the haves and the have nots. This evil is what keeps people like me, people like you, and people like EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVERYONE here … watching … from going up the mountain … to attain our glory, our happiness, our peace, our own personal comfort. This evil is why we have to SCRATCH AND CLAW for every crumb, every drop, every ounce.
And we will keep scratching and clawing, Katie Lynn. We will. Because we a…"
A little before XYZ stops, he notices Big Al begins to cough ferociously. This coughing has become more and more prevalent in the recent weeks since he returned from his lung cancer surgery. XYZ sees Big Al hunch over.
XYZ: "Al … are you … what’s wrong?"
Big Al continues to cough, and XYZ now sees him coughing up blood that is sprinkled onto his wrist and the back of his hand.
Katie Baxter: "XYZ, is something wro…?"
XYZ: "Don’t you see?! My friend is hurting! Can someone help?!"
XYZ watches as Big Al continues to cough, each more violent than the one before. Big Al falls to his knees, now wheezing in between the coughs. Big Al puts his right hand onto the shoulder of XYZ, who is crouched next to him. When Big Al coughs, it’s a reprieve from the wheezing, which seems to prevent him from properly breathing.
XYZ: "Big Al! Big Al! What do you need from me, friend?! WHAT DO YOU NEED?!"
XYZ then turns to Katie Lynn and shouts, "CAN SOMEONE GET SOME HELP?!?!"
Katie Baxter: "Help. Someone help over here. XYZ is in trouble. Please. I … I don’t know what’s going on."
Big Al is now face down, laying on the ground next to a frantic XYZ. He continues to wheeze, and XYZ sees him searching for oxygen in between the wheezing and coughing. XYZ helplessly watches his friend go red and pink in face color, as he repeatedly shouts for Big Al to 'BREATHE' and asks him what he can do.
But there is nothing to do, and eventually, a few medical personnel pull XYZ up by the armpits and make him stand up.
'Deep breaths,' one says. 'It’s OK. You need to stand upright and take deep bre…'
XYZ: "NO LET ME HELP MY FRIEND HE IS DYING LET ME HELP HIM LET ME GO STOP HOLDING ME HERE I NEED TO HELP MY FRIEND HE CANNOT BREATHE DON’T YOU HEAR HIM HE IS STRUGGLING TO BREATHE HE IS DYING PLEASE SOMEONE HELP HIM!"
The medical personnel continue to restrain XYZ in an upright position amid his panic. XYZ is scratching and clawing to get back to where he sees Big Al lying motionless on the ground, where absolutely no one is tending to him.
XYZ: "SOMEONE PLEASE SOMEONE HELP PLEASE!"
XYZ is now inconsolable, a mixture of tears and screaming as he tries to get to his friend. But there now are seven people – many of who are medical professionals on the FWA’s medical staff – holding him back.
'X … X …' one says softly, trying to calm him down.
'There’s no one there.'
The last thing we see is XYZ’s big bug eyes go even wider and bigger as his breathing quickens and a panic attack – an even bigger panic attack – sets in.
Katie Baxter: "Alright, we need to cut. Cut the camera. NOW!"
And the feed goes black.
|
|
|
XYZ
Jul 7, 2024 17:52:14 GMT
Post by The Golden One on Jul 7, 2024 17:52:14 GMT
What Does ‘Goodbye’ Look Like?
Sitting at a bar in a bowling alley, a man with a handlebar mustache and a cowboy hat sips on a glass of ice-cold whiskey while his elbows are propped up on the bartop. This man takes a big deep breath and then looks up, catching our glare and meeting us with a miniature smirk, like his bottom lips dart off to the side a bit. It’s the face of our trusty narrator – who comes and goes like an unreliable romantic partner – in the story of XYZ.
As he looks down at his drink, he holds the glass loosely and takes another sip, letting the ice cool off his healthy mustache before letting rip his southern twang of an accent and lexicon.
“Howdy, y’all. Been a while since I gotten to see yer friendly faces. Been a while. A lot has happened, eh? A lot for our ‘ole pal, XYZ. I reckon’ y’all all saw it, ‘ole Big Al croaked. It was sad and maddening and every emotion you can muster up. Tough to watch.
Well, I’m here to tell y’all what ‘ole X has been up to since. In the days and weeks after Big Al’s very public ‘n heartbreakin’ passing, XYZ was told something over and over and over again. His therapist, Dr. Mackall, told him this. One of his partners in the 5-on-5 tag team match, Tommy Bedlam, told him this.
A few others told him this. Hell, even I told him this.
We told X that he needed to have a proper goodbye for Big Al. Whatever a “proper goodbye” may look like to him. Might be different for him than anyone else. Who’s to say, y’know? The kid … he’s just too heartbroken, too damaged, too emotionally wrecked to truly focus on the future – on goin’ forward. He’s a sittin’ duck for a hungry pack of wolves to rip up, and we gotta get him right.”
The narrator takes a breath and a sip of his whiskey. What he says is true. The days and weeks following Big Al’s death felt like months and years for XYZ. Again, it happened recently – less than two months ago, on December 10, 2022, an episode of Fallout.
A little before XYZ stops, he notices Big Al begins to cough ferociously. This coughing has become more and more prevalent in the recent weeks since he returned from his lung cancer surgery. XYZ sees Big Al hunch over.
XYZ: "Al … are you … what’s wrong?"
Big Al continues to cough, and XYZ now sees him coughing up blood that is sprinkled onto his wrist and the back of his hand.
XYZ watches as Big Al continues to cough, each more violent than the one before. Big Al falls to his knees, now wheezing in between the coughs. Big Al puts his right hand onto the shoulder of XYZ, who is crouched next to him. When Big Al coughs, it’s a reprieve from the wheezing, which seems to prevent him from properly breathing.
XYZ: "Big Al! Big Al! What do you need from me, friend?! WHAT DO YOU NEED?!"
XYZ then turns to Katie Lynn and shouts, ”CAN SOMEONE GET SOME HELP?!?!"
The narrator continues after that flashback.
“Y’know, Big Al died in Austria, and he never said a word about Austria. He mentioned enjoying or wanting to visit Japan, England, Ireland, France, Australia, Germany, Belgium, Mexico, South Africa, Madagascar, Canada, Brazil, Argentina, Peru, and even Luxembourg. Never Austria, though. Whatever that means.
And … ‘ole XYZ has been trying to figure out what it meant for a while. He spent the past 6-7 weeks trying to figure out everything about Big Al, an imaginary friend who was the mental reincarnation of his childhood dog. Sounds crazy, right? Well, it’s the truth, but XYZ refuses to believe it. He keeps tellin’ everyone, ‘BIG AL WAS REAL!’ He’s yellin’ it. Over ‘n over. Then he told Katie Baxter that he wasn’t sure who or what was real anymore.”
XYZ: “It’s tough. And all I can think now is … what is real? Who is real? Are you real, Katie? Or are you all in my mind? Am I hallucinating Reagan Cole? Is he real?”
Katie Baxter: “Well … yeah … Reagan Cole is real. So am I. So is everyone here.”
XYZ: “Yeah … you would say that.”
“The mere thought of Reagan Cole should bring us to the Cosmic Discord Wrestling: Valentine’s Day Massacre match involving Reagan, XYZ, and Thomas West. All three vying for the Tentacle of Pathos. The Tentacle of Pity or Sadness. Fitting.
But the mention of thought of Reagan Cole does not bring us to this topic – yet. Instead, it brings us to the idea of a ‘goodbye.’ What is a ‘goodbye’ for Big Al? Well, kiddos, that’s where our story picks up.”
XYZ had been making fliers for three weeks straight. Ever since Christmas, he got the idea in his head to hold a proper funeral for Big Al. Ever since the fourth person told him to do a goodbye.
So, he started making fliers. They were similar to the fliers he made for the XYZites tryouts, which sadly reminded X of Big Al. Either way, he got motivated to make fliers for Big Al’s funeral. Flier after flier. And he handed them out throughout the galaxy.
He drove-flew the Magic School Bus to the Peas Galaxy and delivered them to the four planets there: peaux, troople, and 435-T.
He drove-flew the Magic School Bus to the Titariansum Galaxy and handed them out to the two planets he felt safe visiting: the mucklands and Big Bob’s Burger Shack.
Then he flew the Magic School Bus to earth, to deliver the fliers to people whom he felt had the best chance of showing up. He sent one to Lizzie Rose, one to Joe Burr, one to Bellatrix Boudreaux, one to Chris Peacock, one to Tommy Bedlam, one to Yuna Kurosawa, and one to Jeremy Best. He didn’t send one to Kleio de Santos since he felt she would never come. But the others, he felt they’d try to make it. A few – namely Yuna and Jeremy – were either current or almost honorary XYZites.
Yet, as the date of January 31, 2023 neared – no one responded back with an RSVP. How would XYZ prepare the little meatballs on the sticks for the post-service get-together? How would he know how many fold-out chairs to rent? How would he know how big of a room he’d need, if the Magic School Bus wasn’t big enough?
All of this was going through his head. He wanted this goodbye to be the best possible goodbye for Big Al, and everyone kept either deflecting his emotions or getting in his way of preparation.
Then, on the night of January 30, 2023, XYZ broke down. He lost his cool and composure. He got angry. He got hurt. He felt forgotten and betrayed. He felt cast aside. He felt alone. And he dove more into those feelings when he canceled the Big Al service/funeral event altogether.
If no one would show up, then what was the point?
“What is the point of reaching for the stars, when no one believes you ever did it?” he asked, to no one in particular. This is all despite winning the 5-on-5 match, which felt hollow to XYZ. He was along for the ride, nothing more, although he wishes the experience led to more allies and believers in his cause. But he’s still minus-1 on that front.
This, for whatever reason, made him think of the Tentacle of Pathos. That stupid tentacle for this stupid special wrestling show which he stupidly signed up for, amid everything. Then he thought about the Tentacle of Pathos, and of Big Al, and it made him think about what goodbye looks like to him.
Big Al would’ve loved to win the Tentacle of Pathos. He’d love to be on his way to winning the Cosmic Interdimensional Championship. Big Al never won anything in his life. He never won anything materialistic like the Tentacle of Pathos.”
The location of this incident is not important. The setting is mundane. XYZ could be anywhere: in a bar across from the cowboy narrator; in a movie theater; atop Mount Everest; in a classroom; at the grave of Big Al; or anywhere else in the world.
The location matters nothing (it’s in the Magic School Bus, but still). The incident is what matters.
XYZ has had two thoughts on his mind since Big Al’s passing. The first, “Why isn’t anyone taking this as serious as me?” The second, “What can I do to honor him?”
The Tentacle of Pathos would be the way to honor Big Al.
“Frick the service,” XYZ says to himself. He does not use cuss words. Never does. Even the substitutes is a hand-over-mouth event for him.
“Frick the funeral. This is not how Big Al would want it done.”
XYZ looks down at the flier he made as he sits in the driver’s seat of the Magic School Bus and crumples it up.
“To heck with trying to say ‘goodbye’ the way they say to. I need the tentacles around my neck, for Big Al! We will scratch to the top for the pathos. We will fight to the hill for the pity and sadness!”
XYZ then thinks about his opponents – Thomas West and Reagan Cole – for a fleeting moment. It’s fleeting not by choice, though. He has a monologue planned. His usual XYZ monologue talking about animals and stars is interrupted by a knock on the door of the Magic School Bus.
Surprised by this, XYZ grabs the handle and yanks it as hard as he can – the door gets a little jammed at times. When he opens it fully, he sees five faces he has never seen before. Or, at least, he cannot place them right now.
The first is a man of Latino descent.
“Call me Wild Jerry, amigo. You got some sweet digs.”
Wild Jerry walks up and looks around the paint-chipped, seat cushion-torn, beaten down school bus.
“Frank. People call me Frank. Don’t call me Big Frank even though I look like Big Al. I don’t want that awkward energy.”
XYZ is taken aback and asks the nearly 7-foot-tall black man, “How do you know what Big Al looked like?”
“I just know,” Frank replies.
The third fella, a pale-skinned man with glasses, is looking into a handheld PacMan video game.
“That’s PacMan Bert. We call him that because, well, you can figure it out.”
“Yo, gringo! Can I sit on the wheel?!” Wild Jerry shouts out.
There are two more faces joining XYZ on the Magic School Bus.
The first is a woman. She has long black hair and surprisingly holds a child – toddler age – in her right arm. In her left arm is a sheet of paper.
When she hands it to XYZ, he looks down and sees the flier he made for Big Al’s service.
“Sierra. Name’s Sierra. We all came together. Wanted to come to the service,” Sierra says. “Also, this is Lizzy. Not Lizzy Rose. Lizzy Golden.”
XYZ sees a child of about 18 months in age – a girl – with noticeable blonde hair and blue eyes. She has a bit of a stranger-danger vibe going on with how she’s looking at XYZ, who has a similar stranger-danger vibe back towards her.
“No service anymore. I canceled it.”
“Well, how are you gonna say goodbye to your friend?”
“I guess … win the Tentacle of Pathos.”
Sierra nods her head and sighs, at the same time. She has no idea what the Tentacle of Pathos is or if she should care. She was previously married and a partner to the reigning FWA World Champion. Now it’s someone chasing a Tentacle of Pity? Well, it’s not nothing.
“It’s not nothing,” she says, with an undertone of sleight.
“Big Al would’ve loved to win the Tentacle of Pathos.”
“I get the sense he didn’t win much, if anything at all.”
“He once won a cruise. Not a free cruise. Just a cruise. You put your name and phone number into those little bowls with everyone else and they pick someone from it. Do you know what I’m talking about? He filled it out at Subway.”
“They call everyone. If it’s not a free cruise, then you didn’t win anything.”
“I know. But he was happy.”
Sierra steps onto the bus fully and looks down to the back, where Frank is already making the back of the bus go up and down by jumping up and falling onto one of the seats.
“Are you all going to join the XYZites?”
“The XYZites?”
“Yeah, it’s my group.”
“What does this group do?”
“Make the world a better place. Big Al was the first XYZite.”
Sierra thinks about it, and Lizzy Golden chimes in by saying, “Yah!” with a big, open-mouth smile. The toddler then claps her hands together three times.
“Cwacka!” she says.
“Cracker?”
“Yah!”
“I have Ritz.”
“Yah!”
XYZ hands Lizzy Golden a sleeve of Ritz crackers. Sierra smiles.
“I guess joining the XYZites is our way of saying ‘goodbye’ to Big Al.”
“You didn’t know him, though.”
“Eh, in a way, we did.”
Sierra sits Lizzy Golden on the front seat opposite of the driver’s seat. XYZ and Lizzy have a staredown in silence for a minute. Then X turns to Sierra.
“I have one question for you all … before I let you on.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you all believe Big Al was real?”
Sierra doesn’t need to wait or even think about it to answer. She smiles and closes her eyes momentarily. Then she slightly nods.
“As real as you or me, XYZ. As real as you or me.”
|
|
|
XYZ
Jul 7, 2024 17:56:11 GMT
Post by The Golden One on Jul 7, 2024 17:56:11 GMT
Christian Howard has spent the past couple of weeks studying wrestling matches. Just pouring his work days into wrestling matches. Singles matches. Tag team matches. Triple threat matches. All sorts of them.
The only running theme is a specific wrestler participating in all of them. In every match, XYZ is involved. He wins as many as he loses. He has bright moments, and he has head-scratching moments.
He’s your epitome of an up-and-down wrestler. It’s no wonder he has been close but never won a singles championship in his lengthy wrestling career. Then again, he may not mind, considering his intergalactic “battles” and “quests” as a superhero. There’s also the traumatic events with “Big Al” and his entire childhood. There’s a lot to XYZ’s story, so it’s probably not surprising if not winning any singles championship yet hasn’t registered as a major mental setback.
But Christian Howard has registered it. He registers it after watching X’s most-recent match: the Carnal Contendership match.
He registers it because he, as the Director of Superhero Apparel for ShirtScapes, has set up a meeting with XYZ and the rest of the Menage. Angelo Bastecki, the CEO of ShirtScapes, will join them.
To recap from two weeks ago – when we first met Christian and Angelo – ShirtScapes is the only international-operating business headquartered in the small, 8,000-resident town of Abingdon, Virginia. ShirtScapes has a few profitable sectors of its business, but superhero apparel is not one of them.
They don’t sell their capes, masks, or T-shirts well in this department. They don’t have any deals with Batman or Superman or Robinhood or any of the name-brand superheroes of the world. After a brainstorming session, Christian and Angelo landed on looking at FWA wrestlers.
Not the top names like Michelle von Horrowitz or Chris Peacock or Danny Toner or Shawn Summers or, hell, even Cyrus Truth. No, they were looking at XYZ, who actually portrays a superhero.
Angelo Bastecki wasn’t confident in this approach. Christian Howard felt it was throwing a dart at a dartboard from 1,000 feet away, which is to say he doesn’t feel confident, either. However, Christian feels they have to try something, and this is that something. Angelo just frowns and groans at it all.
“What’s our strategy?” Angelo asks the day before their big meeting with XYZ and The Menage. “What’s the gameplan?”
“Play to his emotions. XYZ is an emotional person. He has been through a lot. We don’t want to disrupt who he is at the co…”
“I think we need him to bend to our needs,” Angelo says in response. "This ain't some NBA player or NFL player. This isn't some hotshot. This isn't even a champion in the FWA. This is like ... a nobody. I'm almost embarrassed to be doing this with him. Even meeting with him. I watched his stuff. It's a joke."
This sentiment is the opposite of what Christian was expressing, but the Director of Superhero Apparel is not the CEO. Angelo is his boss, so he has to listen. Christian thinks there's something about XYZ that gravitates people toward him. Not everyone, but a good number of them. He thinks people genuinely like XYZ and root for him and want to see him succeed. He thinks there's a likability factor that could make people buy ShirtScapes apparel for the underdog nature of both X and the company. Again, the company is behind some big-name brands in the superhero apparel department, so it's an underdog situation.
For this reason, the more Christian watches XYZ matches, he thinks it's a perfect fit. But his boss believes the opposite.
“XYZ has never won a singles championship. He has never been a consistent winner. He has never been anything more than a wildcard. An X-factor. He needs to adjust who he is to meet what we need. He needs to be ... better. And he needs to convince us of where he's going.”
“And what do we need?” Christian asks, as the pair sit in the conference room of the upstairs office building where ShirtScapes operates in “downtown” Abingdon.
“We need someone to wear our brand, say a slogan with our brand, and just flash everything there is about ShirtScapes all over TV and everywhere else.”
“I just don’t think that’s quite who XYZ is or what he will go for,” Christian says. "And I don't see XYZ the same way you do."
“Trust me. XYZ will go for it. He needs us more than we need him.”
Angelo’s confidence is admirable, if not misplaced, in Christian’s view. However, he won’t dispute his CEO. This is apparently the plan for tomorrow’s meeting. If it works, it works.
Christian just doesn’t think it’s going to work. He has been watching XYZ matches going back to 2017. He saw the Warriors of Virtue -- XYZ and Lord Dog -- win the FWA Tag Team Championships. He watched XYZ go through the entire "Big Al cancer" stuff and end with Al's death. And he watched X nearly win the X Championship twice.
Through all of that, he has watched XYZ never waver in his personal goals, ambitions, of worldviews. He watched XYZ still talk about the force of the dragon's heart and the spirit of the dolphin's foot in the grand scope of the universe and yada-yada something about the night sky. He feels like he knows who XYZ is and what he stands for. A puppet for branding? That isn’t XYZ. Not at all.
“We’ll see,” Christian thinks to himself.
When XYZ walked up the steps of the two-story commercial building to the upstairs loft space with two rooms – both rather cramped – he doesn't know what to expect. He isn't sure if there will be 2 people or 20 people waiting for him and his friends. Maybe there could be more? More sounds insane for a sponsorship and marketing pitch, but who knows? This is the first sponsorship opportunity of XYZ's career. This is the first business partnership venture with any brand – albeit a small one.
XYZ didn't know what to expect when the Magic School Bus landed in Abingdon, Virginia to reach the headquarters of ShirtScapes, a custom designer and printer of primarily T-shirts, hoodies, and drinkware. None of those three are why X is here today, standing in a general work room along with his five closest allies watching four people at computers type away while trying not to look too awkward in their attempted ignoring of The Menage.
And as XYZ stands in this room and waits to be ushered into the “conference room” in the back, he doesn’t know what to expect when he enters.
But … this isn’t XYZ’s story, is it?
This story is about ShirtScapes, specifically about the Director of Superhero Apparel.
Who is noticeably quiet throughout the first five minutes of the meeting.
“I wanted us to all meet here to discuss this partnership opportunity,” Angelo Bastecki says in the king’s chair of the conference room, with everyone sitting around the long oval-shaped table.
Next to Angelo on his right is Christian. To his left is XYZ, and next to XYZ are, in order, Frank, Wild Jerry, and Sierra. PacMan Bert didn’t want to get off the Magic School Bus for this. He’d rather play PacMan alone while watching Sierra’s toddler-age child. The Menage joined X on this because they wanted to show him support. It has been a rough few months for everyone. Wild Jerry, Frank, and PacMan Bert lost their friend, Sauce Man, while Sierra and her daughter lost Golden. Both left. They found X, who had just lost Big Al.
They're leaning on one another more than ever. The Menage needs each other.
“We think there’s something here, but we also think … I think … that who XYZ has been is only the tip of the iceberg. Can he be … more?”
“More … in what way?” Frank says, speaking up to defend X.
“More … well … and please don’t take offense to this … more serious.”
That singular statement sets an uncomfortable tone to the meeting, and it never really recovers. As Angelo attempts to reposition his stance while also getting across the main point of having XYZ “represent” ShirtScapes as a “serious superhero”, the entire Menage shuts down and shuts him out. XYZ never speaks once. Frank, Wild Jerry, and Sierra all speak for him.
“To call him not serious enough is a slap in the face,” Sierra says, coming to X’s defense in a moment of solidarity after she joined up with the group when “The Golden One” left what he would call “this place.”
“Aye, this gringo is a fool, yo!” Wild Jerry shouts to X towards the end of the meeting.
“We have better things to do, and he just wants us to wear his shitty capes and shirts with his company on them. He doesn’t know a thing about who you are, X!”
“I DO know who he is!” Angelo retorts, getting defensive and angry.
“Who is he then?” Frank says, the calmest of anyone who has spoken.
“He’s a man who had a traumatic life event more than 20 years ago when his mom left him on the side of the road, and he mentally has never gotten over that moment. He has abandonment issues, and he has a child-like wonder that has sept into a personality disorder and schizophrenia. And now he walks around with a piece of cloth tied to his neck and calls it a cape so he can say he is trying to save the world. I’ve watched the promos. I’ve read articles.”
“That ain’t who X is, yo. That’s just facts about his life and personality. That ain’t who he is at the CORE, gringo,” says Wild Jerry, who gets up from his chair.
“I know who he is. And I’m trying to help him get PAST that and evolve past that into something more … well-rounded, for both himself and for us. For both of our benefits!”
Remember how Christian has been quiet? All this time, Christian has been eyeing up XYZ from across the table. Christian has given up on Angelo getting anything out of this with his strategy. He just wants to see X’s reaction, and he’s noting how stoic and observant XYZ has been the entire time.
“XYZ can be a powerful force. He can be a role model. He can be more than the laughingstock who says gibberish and ascites as comedic fuel in a sea filled with seriousness. ShirtScapes wants XYZ to wear ShirtScapes capes and masks and more, but we need someone to represent this brand and get people to BUY it. No one is buying XYZ apparel. No one believes in XYZ apparel right now. Because no one believes in XY…”
Before Angelo finishes, he stops himself. He feels he is going too far with this line of thinking and wants to reel it in. Even he knows this isn’t going anywhere.
“Then who is he? You tell me,” Angelo says, sitting back and folding his arms.
Frank jumps in.
“He’s a believer, and he wants a family. He’s a believer in people. In the universe. In nature. He believed in us. He took us in. He didn’t have to, but he wanted to. He wanted people around him. It was originally just one person. Now it’s a handful of them.”
Then Sierra.
“He believes in everything he does. No matter if I or you or a therapist or anyone else tells him it isn’t real, he still believes. Because HE might not be real. YOU might not be real. I might not be real.
But he continues to believe. He’s a believer. You can think anything you want with that word: believe. Belief. Believer. Let your mind run wild. He encompasses all of it, different for everyone. Different for each one of us. Not every day is good, but X keeps believing.”
“That’s who XYZ is, yo!” Wild Jerry says, finishing it up.
“Well, none of that means anything really.”
“Yeah, well, it’s time to go.”
Sierra’s statement concludes the meeting, and Angelo is done trying to salvage it. XYZ even gets up and begins to walk out, but Angelo says one last thing.
“You say, ‘The dream never dies,’ right?” Angelo asks, rhetorically. “Well, that doesn’t mean anything, either. You need a new catchphrase.”
“He sure as hell don’t!” Wild Jerry barks.
“Dreams are just that, dreams,” Angelo says, softly, almost as if he's issuing a proverb. “To see them dashes is to live a true life. For we cannot bottle up the wind.”
He then leans back in his chair and looks out across the table with nothing but a lost expression. Wild Jerry scoffs. Sierra follows. Frank shakes his head.
XYZ stands there for a second and smiles. For the first time all meeting, he speaks.
“But still, we must continue to dream, my friend. We must continue to dream. Because the dream … never … dies.”
“You’ll never win a singles championship with that mentality. You’ll never be taken seriously.”
“Maybe not.”
A few days later, on the eve of the latest round of Fallout and Meltdown shows for the FWA, and on the eve of a Television Championship match for XYZ, Christian Howard is cleaning out his desk within what was his assigned cubicle in the ShirtScapes office.
Yes, on this date, May 7, 2023, Christian Howard has been let go from the company. Angelo felt XYZ was not a good fit for the brand, and he decided to let Christian go of his duties and position, largely due to the lacking momentum of the Superhero section, and the last straw was suggesting XYZ as a poster child for that department.
Christian Howard feels it wasn’t his fault, and he feels there was still something to be had with the meeting, if he could do it his way and build a line in his image. However, Angelo railroaded the whole thing, and here we are.
Remember, this is mostly Christian’s story, if only because he’s the person most affected by what has happened.
As he finally packs up the last part of his desk, Angelo Bastecki walks out of his office and surprisingly offers to walk Christian out.
“I don’t want hard feelings. It comes down to money.”
Christian doesn’t want to burn a bridge, so he just nods his head.
When they finally reach the bottom of the staircase, Angelo begrudgingly opens the door and lets out a wayward, “I’m sorry it had to happen this way. I just can’t …”
But his hollow sentiments are halted at the sight of the Magic School Bus parked outside of the office building. XYZ, Wild Jerry, Sierra, Frank, and this time even PacMan Bert, are all leaning against the outside of the bus like a punk rock band in the midst of a Rolling Stones magazine photoshoot.
XYZ, who has a green cloth around his neck serving as a cape, walks up and looks Christian in the eye.
“I will always welcome someone who believes … what I believe … in my family. And I think you believe. Do you?”
Christian, still holding his box of trinkets and word supplies, struggles to find the words.
“I want to believe.”
“And if I told you … you could dream far beyond this … from lightyear to galaxy stone … and from pebble on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean … to a fly’s wing on the outskirts of Saturn’s icy rings … would you let yourself dream that dream?”
“I … I don’t know. It sounds pretty far.”
“It is far. It is far. But do you see that School Bus behind me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe it can fly?”
“Yes.”
“Then do you believe dreams can fly?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know why you’re wasting your time here then ... with someone who doesn't believe or dream as you do."
“Do you have pizza rolls?”
“Lots of them. Wild Jerry and PacMan Bert eat them every day."
Christian Howard is sold, and why wouldn’t he be? He just got fired from his job, he has no family or friends, and he’s completely lost in his life trajectory. But, as XYZ would say, maybe his life situation isn’t as bleak as he’d think. Maybe his life situation offers endless possibilities, and maybe it allows Christian to do something like this.
As Christian boards the Magic School Bus while holding his office trinkets and seemingly joins the Menage, the rest of the crew all shout and clap and cheer in unison! They follow along as XYZ smiles, seeing his camaraderie group grow yet again.
Angelo Bastecki, meanwhile, is now the one silently watching. He and X lock eyes, just as they did a few times during the tense and unproductive meeting just two days ago.
XYZ then pulls a bottle out of his pocket. It’s an empty glass bottle with no branding on it. He then underhand tosses it 4 feet through the air to Angelo, who catches it out of muscle memory.
“What’s this?”
“You said we cannot bottle up the wind.”
Angelo looks up from the bottle at XYZ, who simply smirks at him.
“That wind is from the planet Udarpas in the Sauna galaxy. It’s good wind. It’s strong.”
“Yeah? Okay. Whatever you say. That's not a real place."
"Maybe not. And maybe I'll never win a singles championship. But as long as people believe in me, and as long as I keep getting chances ...
People like you ... who try to change me ... and tell me I'm doing it wrong ... or I need to grow up and get over it all ... you're going to have to sweat it out.
Every day is another chance to dream.
And dreams can fly.
And you CAN bottle up the wind."
Sitting in a chair, one leg draped over the other, is the mustache-sporting narrator of XYZ and The Menage. He has a cowboy hat, a posterior of relaxation, and a welcoming smile. His chair is outside, in the breezy sunlight, as random passerbyers walk within an arm’s length of his position.
The Narrator hasn’t been seen in quite some time, but it’s worth knowing he has been watching XYZ and keeping up to date on his happenings. He’s always watching, whether through a telescope or just being a man on the street within bird’s eye view, such as today, in a yet-to-be-disclosed location.
“Howdy, gang. Long time, no talkin’ to ya’. I’m back ‘n here to give y’all a little roundabout on X ‘n his friend gang. Now, usually, The Menage are at full force, but that dang Wild Jerry’s departure weeks ago left the group fractured. We got a few days before the Meltdown and Fallout shows comin’ up – right on the heels of Carnal Contendership – and you’d think X would be plottin’ n’ plannin’ on his match with Michelle von Horrowitz, right?
Well, we all know that ain’t X’s style. He knows Michelle is a tough cookie, and he’ll need a damn miracle to pull a win. So this week – these days – are all about lookin’ long-term, and long-term says he needs a much more quaint version of the group.
Sure, the always-eccentric and attempting-to-be-inspirational XYZ is ‘round here somewhere. However, he has “excused” the others – Frank, Christian Howard, ‘n that wild man PacMan Bert – giving them a much-needed holiday. His attention lay with Sierra and her “sleuthing”, as she and Lizzy Golden call it, anyway.”
The Narrator was looking at a menu at the time when the camera zoomed in originally. Now he isn’t. He sets the menu on a small square table.
“I can’t read a damn thing on that anywho. Oh, where are we now? Good question, amigos.
XYZ is not on one of his space travels. He is not siftin’ through the Mexico City parks in search of Wild Jerry. He isn’t even going through some FWA-ordered therapy, which he just remembered recently that he hasn’t been to in nearly a year after going three or four times in the span of two months following Big Al’s 'death.'
No, he, too, is on his own holiday. We are here … in Paris, France. That’s damn right. The cty of love, of affection, and of big towers – or a big tower. Plus a bunch of people gettin’ mad at us English-speakin’ folk. But hey, we aint here much longer.”
The Narrator pauses, allowing for the unseen narrator to fill the blanks. X, Sierra, and Liz are staying in a southern neighborhood near the Guy Moquet metro station.
“Cafes and restaurants dot every corner of every intersection – busy or not. Coffee shops and souvenir stops pack the lower levels of multi-story buildings from street corner to street corner. Lofts ‘n apartments – one of which where XYZ and his two companions are staying – fill the uppers. In between, in the crevices of the city filled with love and style and art and other tourist attractions, are what XYZ enjoys most about international travel.
Eating at U.S.-popularized fast food chains, such as Big Al’s favorite, Popeyes.
“There’s one in Montmartre and another elsewhere in the city. There are multiple McDonald’s, plus multiple Five Guys and KFC. Oh, and there’s a Pizza Hut three blocks from the AirBnB where X is staying. How about the Dominos a half mile away?
Anywho, let’s get over to the trio so we can check in. Until next time…”
The Narrator flips the menu back up – upside down – as he tries again to read the French food descriptions.
A block over, XYZ is enjoying two pieces of chicken from Popeyes. Sierra and Lizzy, who are not eating, watch in silence. It’s not fun for them.
“X, should we go to the Eiffel Tower? Or the Louvre?"
Sierra’s discouraging tone cannot keep X from his food.
“Not inspired by big buildings or art galleries.”
“What about a boat ride on the river?”
XYZ doesn’t respond, which in itself is a response. Sierra is noticeably upset, but also agitated. Same with Lizzy.
“Why are we here? In Paris?” Lizzy asks, leaning forward with her arms crossed on the table.
“It is random. I needed an escape.”
“Why did you bring us along and not the other three?” Lizzy hounds.
“Because I wanted an update on Sierra’s sleuthing and the search for my mom.”
“I’ve put it out everywhere,” Sierra says.
XYZ looks up, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and nods.
“I know. You did your best.”
“I’ve done my best, but you haven’t made it easy. You aren’t even sure on a name. You just ask for ‘XYZ’s mom’ to contact us. How would one know they were your mom?”
“I assume everyone knows of how we are trying to save the downtrodden and help them ride from the darkness,” he replies.
“You’d be surprised how few people watch professional wrestling,” Lizzy jabs.
“X, either way, we won’t find her in Paris. She’s definitely back in the United States.”
“Well, I was hoping Wild Jerry would meet us. I told him we’d be here if he wanted to come. He has always been an extravagant world traveler.”
Nothing, though. Wild Jerry has not shown himself in Paris.
As XYZ, Sierra, and Lizzy walk out, they enter one of the busier streets in the city. X looks for the metro station and begins thoughtfully planning his next meal.
“Five Guys for dinner?”
Liz rolls her eyes and Sierra doesn’t even offer a response.
“Hey, are you XYZ?” a random person shouts with an American accent. The English-speaking fan is a pleasant surprise to XYZ, who nods and keeps going, his green cape tied tightly around his neck.
“I am. And you are?”
“Well … I was asked by a lady over there to ask you. She offered me 10 euros, too.”
The fan, a high-teenager in age, looks behind him across to a cafe near the Popeyes and waves. Then, amid the bustle of people, a woman appears walking toward them. She has a very thin figure – almost sickly thin – with black hair and beautiful pale skin. She seems to be around 40 years old in the face, but some of her skin is wrinkled, so maybe she’s closer to 50.
“Thank you,” the lady says before handing over the 10 euros.
She then approaches XYZ, Sierra, and Lizzy Golden.
“Ma’am … are you in trouble? Needing anything? Usually someone seeking me or The menage out is in need of our saving services, often on another planet or galaxy.”
“I do not,” the woman says after a small chuckle.
“Oh, X. You’re as imaginative as I remember.”
XYZ is taken aback momentarily. He looks at Sierra, who cocks her head to her side suspiciously. Lizzy, though, picks up on it immediately. Her eyes grow big.
“Do I know you from a past life? I cannot place your face?”
“It has been years, X. But yes, you do know me.”
A pause.
“I’m your mom.”
|
|
|
XYZ
Jul 7, 2024 18:08:48 GMT
Post by The Golden One on Jul 7, 2024 18:08:48 GMT
Sierra walks down the hallway of the cheap motel in Montreal, Ontario, Canada where The Menage are staying. She has uncovered something, but she’s not at all sure exactly what. Her phone is in her hand – unlocked – with an image on the screen.
When she turns the corner, she can hear the voice of XYZ through the walls. He’s sitting in the two-bed room with his mom, Lizzy, Frank, Christian Howard, and Wild Jerry. It’s a tight fit for the seven of them to sleep together in a two-bed motel room, but they make it work thanks to three of them sleeping on the floor every night. They would sleep in the Magic School Bus, but it’s still being repaired.
"When the moons align with the stars, you must chase the rabbit with the purple tail,” XYZ says on the phone, which Sierra hears through the motel room door.
She pushes it open to see XYZ talking gleefully into the phone while his mom gives him a back scratch.
“And the purple tail ... is your blossoming career in the eyes of the world of wrestling demons. My XYZites will be with you in peace as we fight together for the light."
X hangs up the phone before the person on the other end of the line can respond in full.
“Who was that?” Sierra asks.
“That? Oh, that is my tag team partner for Fallout! Gino Galucci. Fine kid. FINE kid. He’d make a good addition to the XYZites, if we have an opening.”
“I think we might be getting a little too crowded,” Sierra says.
“Hmm? Well. I don’t know.”
Sierra has been one of the biggest advocates of X trying to find his mom. She sent out ads, feelers, internet fliers. Anything to send a signal to her. Then, when X’s mom showed up in Paris and joined the group, Sierra felt she finally gave X something. She might have accomplished something for him.
She feels maybe it is time for her and Lizzy to part ways with The Menage. Maybe it is time for them to forge their own path, possibly away from the FWA. There is too much pain from the memory of him, and everyone knows it. Sierra feels lonely. Lizzy is fine, but Sierra cannot fathom leaving her daughter behind.
So she began conceptualizing possibly leaving the group. She hasn’t told Lizzy yet. Only problem is, she had this pit in her stomach. A gut feeling. She felt a pull to stick around and check on this woman. XYZ’s mom. Is there something Sierra could find out about her?
“X, I need to show you something. Can we chat in private?”
Frank, Christian Howard, and Lizzy are sitting on one of the beds watching “Bourne Identity” on a cable channel. They’re gripped to the TV. PacMan Bert is, as you’d expect, playing his handheld PacMan game. X and his mom are the only two giving Sierra any attention at all.
“Can I join you two?” X’s mom asks. “I need some fresh air.”
“I uh … I’d rather show X myself. It’s important for the match.”
“Well, I’m part of the group now, right? I think I can help! Maybe offer some insight.”
“How about I tell X and then he can tell you if he thinks he needs advice? Sometimes we all start giving advice and it never really goes well. Remember, X, when everyone started talking at the same time in that galaxy that one time when we were trying to save those rabbit-faced people?”
“Ah, yes. Planet Bulbasaur. I remember that. One of Wild Jerry’s not-so-finest moments.”
“Speaking of Wild Jerry,” Sierra says under her breath.
“Huh?” X asks.
“No, nothing. Let’s go outside. I have something you should know about …”
Sierra forgets momentarily who X and Gino Galucci are facing.
“Brooklyn Xavier and Sawyer Steiner.”
“No, no, it’s Brooklyn Sawyer and Xavier Steiner,” X replies.
Frank suddenly looks up from the television.
“I don’t think that’s it, either. I think it’s Steiner Sawyer and Xavier Brooklyn.”
“Are you sure X isn’t facing El Vengador again?” Lizzy asks.
“No, I’m sure of it! And it’s Brooklyn Galucci and Gino Steiner.”
“Then who is your partner?”
“Which partner?” X asks.
“The one you were just on the phone with!” Sierra says, losing her patience.
“Hey! Don’t shout at my son!” X’s mom barks, rising up from the bed.
“You know, I think I should come to your little palwal chat. I don’t like how you’re speaking to my boy.”
“I’m sorry. X, I’m sorry. Please, let’s go chat.”
“Okay, but first, let’s land on who we’re facing.”
“You’re facing Gino Galucci and Brooklyn Steiner. Sawyer Xavier is your partner. It doesn’t matter right now. Come on.”
“Well, I think it may matter a little who he’s facing,” X’s mom says.
“Are we sure X isn’t in the North American Championship Open Challenge?” Lizzy asks, stoking the confusion.
“He has never been North American Champion!” Frank barks.
“Ooooooooooh, that’s right,” she says with a smirk.
“Lizzy, stop now,” Sierra remarks. “X, please. Let’s go in the hall.”
“XYZ is teaming with Gino Galucci and he’s facing Sawyer Xavier and Brooklyn Steiner,” Christian Howard says sternly.
No one replies back for a while. Frank nods his head and returns to the movie. So, too, does Lizzy. X’s mom shrugs her shoulders and offers a “sounds right to me.”
As X walks out of the room and into the hallway, he can sense Sierra’s consternation in her energy.
“Sierra, you are one of my trusted friends. What is going on here?”
“X … I have to show you something I found. This is a picture that was posted on your mom’s Instagram a few weeks ago.”
She hands him the phone.
“Okay?”
“Look at the date.”
“May 14.”
“Now look at the location.”
“Mexico City.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little odd?”
“That she was in Mexico City? Not at all. She told me she has been traveling quite a bit.”
“But we were recently in Mexico City.”
“Okay? Maybe she has been following us for some time now.”
“I just find it a bit coincidental. It … I don’t know. Something feels weird about that to me.”
“Sierra … I would not feel any weird in your stomach pits. I at first was hesitant to trust her. But everything she has said … it sounds like my mom. It feels like my mom. She even looks like the person I remember.”
“Maybe you just want to remember her this way, X.”
“Why are you so concerned, Sierra?”
“I don’t want you to be hurt. I’m not saying she is lying. I’m just saying maybe … she has bad intentions. She was gone for nearly THIRTY years, X. Why is she back now?”
“I wondered the same thing, but I have stopped wondering and am just enjoying it. I am getting back the childhood I lost, Sierra. A piece of me is healing. I need you – more than anyone else – to be happy for me. You know more than anyone how difficult this has been for me, not having her. Not having my own mother in my life.”
“I get it, X. I do. I don’t have … you know who … my own husband … Lizzy’s father. It’s painful. I can empathize with you. But … I don’t know …”
“I cannot help but wonder if your own pain is making you subconsciously want me to also suffer in pain with you. I can’t help but wonder if you are subconsciously sabotaging this for me, Sierra. I hope not, but it is in my head.”
“X, I …”
“Please drop it. Just … Mexico City … is Mexico City. It can be a coincidence, or it can be another clue that yes, she was trying to find us for a while. And maybe she just missed us by a few weeks.”
“A month. More than a month.”
“And maybe it’s a coincidence.”
X leaves Sierra in the hallway holding out her phone – which is now locked – and returns to the motel room. Before entering through the door, he gives a dramatic, melancholy look back at Sierra before looking down and walking into the room.
The door then closes behind him, and as Sierra walks by, she peers into the window and sees X sit next to his mom on the bed, his backscratch continuing.
|
|
|
XYZ
Jul 7, 2024 18:15:14 GMT
Post by The Golden One on Jul 7, 2024 18:15:14 GMT
“So … do you think … he planned it all out … or just makes it up as he goes along?” Christian Howard asks.
“Who? X?” Frank replies.
“No, not X.”
“Oh … him.”
Frank and Christian, sitting in the Magic School Bus while on their way to actual mainland earth, glance over to Sierra and, more specifically, Lizzy. It’s a brief glance, albeit an empathetic one, before returning to their own eye contact in case they are caught.
“I don’t know. Feels like a stretch to say he planned it all out.”
“Really? ‘The dream never dies’? Note the word of emphasis.”
“So you’re saying … way back in 2016 or 2017 … whenever XYZ first started saying that phrase … it was all part of some elaborate plan to call this place for what it truly is?”
“Feels like a big coincidence.”
“And I think that’s all it was. So, yes, I think he was just making it up as he goes along.”
“It really fell into place quite nicely then, didn’t it?”
“You know what they say about lucky and good.”
“But the good ones usually take advantage of their luck.”
“I agree.”
A pause.
“I hope X does, too.
So … you’ve put it all together?”
“I … I think so.”
“Yeah, you’re like … weeks behind us … but we wanted you to do it at your own pace. Your own journey.”
|
|
