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Post by supinesnake on Jul 29, 2024 0:25:33 GMT
MICHELLE von HORROWITZin[volume 124]THIS
IS A LOVE STORY.(reprise) PART FOUR.“The Captain of the Ship, the Master of the House.” 23rd July, 2023. 19:00.[twenty two hours after j.s.]She nursed a neat Jameson's and stared out of the large window between the bar and the street. The bus station was across the road, filled with innumerable vehicles labelled with destinations she'd never heard of. She didn't know which bus was hers. Didn't care. The fact that she would shortly be boarding one of them - any one of them - was enough. Valeria sat opposite her. She wasn't looking at the buses. Her gaze was trained firmly on Michelle. “You're still thinking about him? Your Captain?” Valeria asked, her voice deep and thick with an accent. The Dutch woman offered a meek nod of her head as a response. It hadn't even been twenty four hours. Of course she was thinking about him. “You want my advice?”“I thought you didn't give advice,” Michelle reminded her. The other woman's eyes narrowed. They didn't have time for one-upmanship. “Revelling in your misery will get you nowhere,” she began, ignoring the feeble attempt to change the subject. “It's easy, sure. Sometimes it's even comfortable. But that way lies madness. Did I wallow, or did I get even?”“You wallowed for a while,” Michelle answered. “And then you got even. I'm not there yet. Maybe I'm still in my wallowing phase.”“My situation was different,” Valeria said. “I lost everything, Michelle. You just had a regrettable orgasm.”“Our situations are different, I agree,” Michelle replied. “So perhaps you should stop comparing them.”A flash of anger stirred in Valeria. Her eyebrows furrowed under the weight of this sudden rage. She finished her tequila in one greedy pull in an attempt to compose herself. Michelle, on the other hand, rotated her glass between outstretched fingertips but neglected to drink its contents. Her head was already fried. She'd reached the point where booze and other intoxicants had no further effect. Michelle reminded herself of the knives hidden in Valeria's pockets, her cavalier attitude towards violence, and the resultant requirement to exhibit caution. “Perhaps I don't express myself well,” Valeria said. “English is my second language.”“English is my fourth language,” Michelle answered. It appeared that antagonism was merely a part of her, and not something that could be suppressed. “¿Prefieres en español?”Valeria didn't look angry anymore. She only looked hurt. “Why are you being like this?” she asked. Dreamer shrugged. “It will make the goodbye easier.”Valeria began to busy herself in collecting her bag and her hat. She threw the former onto her back and placed the latter onto her head, carefully adjusting the angle to a slight jaunt. “All your jokes and taunts aside,” she said, with a note of indignation in her tone and a sense that it was time to bring about the aforementioned goodbye. “If you walk around with the weight of what you did upon those small shoulders, it will drive you into the Earth. You must destroy the past, before it destroys you. And you're not going to accomplish that in Shanghai or Tokyo or wherever it is you're going.”Dreamer didn't offer a response. She was too weak for confrontation. Too ashamed. Hiding was easier. Hiding was her only option. To Michelle's surprise, Valeria paused in her unprompted life lesson - which was surprisingly thorough considering her self-professed aversion to giving advice - in order to release a short, sharp burst of laughter. “Listen to me, as if I know you,” she said, whilst shaking her head and retrieving her cigarettes from her bag. “An old friend of twenty four hours. Less than that, even.”“That's longer than you think,” Michelle returned. “All of my life, in a way.”Valeria shook her head in pity. She placed a cigarette between her lips and a hand on Dreamer's shoulder. “Goodbye, Michelle,” she offered. “And good luck.”Michelle said nothing more. She finished her whiskey and watched Valeria leave. She found her bus to Manzanillo with some difficulty. None of the staff at the station looked as though they wanted to help her and she didn’t particularly want anyone’s help. She skulked around the terminal, observing the happy( ish) families preparing to board for their holidays, or young couples issuing passionate and seemingly earnest farewells. She felt like the ghost at the feast, like a guest at her own funeral. As she filed past the driver and flashed her ticket, she overheard the stereo playing radio coverage of the second night of Back in Business. She didn’t recognise the commentators. Had no idea if they were official or not. Her Spanish was good enough to recognise that it was a wrestling match whilst falling well short of comprehension of the match’s events. She understood the names, though: Tommy Bedlam and Shawn Summers. Of course. “The opening match?” she asked, in spite of herself. She wanted to not care, and if it had been any other contest it would’ve been easy to not care. But he’d drawn her back in. The driver nodded in affirmation. “Who’s winning?”“It’s just beginning, hermana,” the driver replied. “But Der Basterd always wins. One way or another.”She filed to the back of the bus and sat down next to an elderly woman with a kindly look. She was invested in an article in a magazine and generally seemed content to leave Michelle to her own thoughts. This, and its position out of range of the radio’s speakers, were the reasons she chose the seat. She took deep breaths as if to steady herself. To anchor herself down, so as not to float away. You're not going to accomplish that in Shanghai or Tokyo or wherever it is you're going. She didn’t know what she meant to accomplish or where exactly she meant to go. Tokyo at first, but hopefully not for very long. That was Snowmantashi’s place, and dwelling there for too long after suffering such a humiliating defeat at his hands would only amplify her shame. But she knew some people in the city who could help her into China or maybe even back to Russia. Just… away. Somewhere else, as hidden as she could be in this world whilst still remaining on it. The fact that escaping the planet’s surface was now beyond her only compounded her misery. The list of those that had abandoned her, friends and foes alike, grew longer still. She had finished chasing Kennedy out of town two years ago and Bell had mostly disappeared long before that. Snowmantashi made his feelings clear when he left the ring and left her a broken mess in the middle of it. And now even Uncle and Gerald had turned their backs on her. She still had the note that they’d placed in her locker room in her pocket, folded up neatly next to the switchblade she’d stolen from Valeria. She didn’t need to read it. She knew what it said. They were gone, just like the rest of them, leaving her abandoned and imprisoned upon this uninspiring lump of rock. Limited as she was by this abandonment, Shanghai seemed about as distant and as otherly as she’d be able to manage. She couldn’t stay here: not in the FWA, around him, and certainly not in Mexico City. She’d killed a girl here, after all, and had probably outstayed her welcome already. Eventually, Michelle opened her eyes, brought back to the here and now by the panicked cry of a chicken. An old man, ostensibly a farmer, was placing its cage in the compartment for overhead luggage. Perhaps this place was otherly enough. “¿Yendo lejos?” asked the kindly lady sitting next to her. “Tan lejos como pueda.”She closed her eyes, and finally drifted off to sleep. She awoke on a corner couch in a larger room. She must have drifted off. This was either thoroughly out of character or in keeping with it, depending upon the phase that she was going through. One of the four walls was glass, and through it a brilliant sunset scorched a green field. The other three walls were covered in fragments of Almond Blossoms. She wasn't alone. Four other women occupied the space, all engaging in their own assigned tasks. It didn't take close inspection to come to the understanding that they were each her, at least on the outside. They were both her and also otherly, both known and unknown. Each had an individual style that dated them, and even placed them to a trained eye. Their respective accents, all unfamiliar, accomplished the same for the untrained. The closest, sitting at an easel and drawing the first pencil lines upon a blank canvas, wore the height of Parisian fashion from ten years ago, though her confidence and her skill with a pencil made her feel current and vibrant. Another stood before a large chalkboard, writing an endless series of dates - beginning with 01/01/1990 - with no accompanying events to identify them. Michelle recognised a lot of them nonetheless. She wore simple and dated clothes, maybe forty years in the past, and when she spoke she did so in a mid-western accent. Another sat behind a secretary's desk, tapping away at a typewriter, her prim but tightly-fitting dress placing her in Manhattan or somewhere similar. The last was working away next to her on a computer, and spoke in a British accent when she broke from her keyboard to address the newcomer. “Ah, you've come back,” she said. “It's been a while.”Needless to say, all of them were alive. Just like her. She checked her hands for blood and found that they were clean. “I know you,” Michelle said, as she dragged her eyes away from her hands and scanned the faces of the other women. Her variants. “Of course you do,” replied the artist, without looking up from her work. “We are you.”“No, more than that,” Michelle answered. Her levels of confusion and clarity were both rising, a contradiction that she couldn't explain in an entirely satisfactory manner. “I've seen you before. You've come to me before.”The artist smiled at the recognition. Meanwhile, the secretary halted in her typing to consult a page of notes on her desk. “Volume 106,” she declared, finally, when her finger reached the correct place in the document. “Matryoshka.”As if to further illustrate the point, the office drone picked up a wooden object from her desk and threw it to Michelle. She caught it and inspected a small Russian doll that was seemingly modelled on her own outward appearance. She only understood in a vague and removed sort of way, as one often does when considering their dreams. She placed the doll down at her side and considered her surroundings. They were familiar, also. “I've been here before, too,” she declared, becoming more confident in her recollections. “Volume 70,” the secretary replied, after a cursory scan of her notes. “Test Dream.”“The one where you analysed the grading rubric,” the office drone interjected. “I heard they changed that,” the professor added, pausing in her endless listing of dates in order to say her piece. “Opens up some new possibilities.”“That's not why she's here,” the artist insisted, sternly. She flashed a grave glance at her three contemporaries, who each nodded their heads dutifully and continued with their work. “Then why am I here?” Michelle again enquired. “I should be on a bus in Mexico, on my way to the coast.”“Should you?” the artist asked, with a knowing expression. “Think, now, tulip. Really think.”Michelle - our Michelle - followed the artist's instructions as quickly and meekly as the rest of her variants had. She closed her eyes and explored her own mind, a task that she initially found difficult, the avenues and corners therein now alien to her. Eventually, though, she began to find her way. She saw the weasel and the lioness, and the dancing bird with his long, extravagant tailfeathers. She saw it all through fragments of images and found that she understood. “Yes, you're right,” she said, finally and unevenly. “It's later than that. Much later.”“It's later than you think,” the professor said, with a wry smile. “I'm in New York,” Michelle continued. “It's one year on. The eve of Back in Business XVIII. This is a dream within a dream?”“If that's how you need to think about it,” the artist answered, with a shrug. “And you are my guardian angels?” she asked, the final two words a sarcastic snarl. It seemed fitting with her tendency for solipsisms that said angels should be manifestations of herself. “Not quite,” the artist said. “You should think of us as more like a Greek chorus,” the Professor suggested. “Less clumsy than the annotation device you used that one time,” the office drone recalled. “Volume 110,” the secretary added. “Glass Family Vibes.”“But you're dwelling on the wrong point,” the artist said, as she took a step towards Michelle, somewhat threateningly. “Mexico City. That's where you were, before you came here. Your portal to us, if you will.”Michelle didn't like thinking about the scene she'd just lived. Re-lived. “I've seen this before: Valeria and Mexico City and the kaiju and the Basterd.”“You saw it because you lived it,” the artist explained. “You’re here again because… well, I guess this day must be important.”“How?” Michelle queried. Her patience began to run short. “A farewell to a woman I barely knew. Barely remember. What follows is months of isolation. Of silence, both internal and external. How can this help me beat Shawn Summers?”Quiet descended within the room. Disquiet, even. Michelle developed the sense that the four variants had hoped she would be able to answer that. “Who did you kill?” the office drone asked. The artist continued to watch Michelle passively - ostensibly fine with the line of questioning - for any sense of a reaction. “Excuse me?” Michelle asked, playing for time. She began to realise that they were in her mind. Potentially shared it. At least in here. “The dead body you mentioned,” the professor clarified. “How did you make it? Whose was it before you killed them?”“I…” Michelle began, whilst leafing through the fragmented and scattered picture book of the previous year's memories. “I don't remember.”“Then maybe you don't go forwards,” the artist suggested, after surveying Dreamer for an appropriate amount of time and concluding that she was speaking honestly. “Maybe you need to go backwards.”“And how do I do that?”The artist smiled. Michelle felt the expression looked out of place upon her own face. Fortunately, she didn't have to look at it for too long. The variant placed her hand on Dreamer's shoulder and - suddenly but not violently, as if falling into a deep and much-needed sleep - she blacked out. PART THREE.“Another Sunny Goodbye.” 23rd July, 2023. 14:00.[fifteen hours after j.s.]She’d found him. It had taken all morning and some of the afternoon, but she’d finally found him. He didn’t look particularly pleased to see her, which was… understandable, given the circumstances of their last encounter. There were a few moments of bewilderment as he stared at her blankly, Michelle shuffling awkwardly in front of him with her hands stuffed into her pockets. She could feel the blade and the note and couldn’t bear to touch the note. He was addled by the day’s drugs and by the day in general, but eventually he recognised her as the woman who had lunged at him earlier that morning. In her defense, he’d launched the first attack and she’d only responded in kind. But punching down had never been her style. The way she’d reacted only added to her shame. The fingertips of her left hand brushed against the blade in one pocket, whilst her right hand clenched a wad of notes in the other one. His eventual recognition brought with it a flash of anger that he made no effort to suppress. If his senses hadn’t been dulled by the morning’s indulgences he’d have lunged at her. Reality didn’t match his expectations. He lurched upwards with both hands, his backside removing itself from the door frame in which he sat for a couple of seconds before gravity caught up with him and dragged it back down. He grasped towards her uselessly. She was out of his reach and he could barely move. “Relax,” she instructed, although he had no choice but to. He was breathing heavily from the sudden exertion and had seemingly given up on the endeavour entirely. She worried for a moment that he was having a heart attack. She didn’t need a second dead body on her hands today. It was barely lunchtime. “I’m not here to fight again. You remember me?”The man nodded his head. He clutched at his shirt as though it was constricting around his chest. She knelt closer to undo the top two buttons, allowing him to finally draw in a sharp and timely inhalation. “I came to say sorry,” she continued. “I don’t know if you care about that. I also brought some money. Cash this time.”She withdrew her right hand from her pocket and with it a fist-full of scrunched up bills. It was her pay packet from last night’s show, minus the ten percent it cost her to cash her cheque and another ten to convert it into pesos. She still insisted upon being paid by cheque, a practice antiquated even by the standards of the wrestling industry. Finding someone down here that would cash it wasn’t easy, but the long search to reconnect with the man she’d wronged (one of the men she’d wronged) had given her time to find a solution. The vagrant lifted his gaze from the notes in her hand to look her straight in the eye before spitting on the ground. He muttered a couple rambling sentences that she caught only a few words of. Puta and coño were amongst them, which was enough for her to catch his drift. “You don’t want the money?” she asked. With one gargantuan exertion of effort, greater than anything she thought any human capable of, he snatched the cash out of her hand and forced himself up onto his feet. He stuffed the bills into his pocket and walked on up the river, muttering further expletives in more languages than she’d assumed him capable of. She lit a cigarette and found her way back to the road, watching the cars pass by an interchange for a while as she smoked. A nearby payphone rang out longingly. She was beginning to wonder if this was a common occurrence in Mexico, or if even the public telephones here were in league to destroy her. The ringing echoed in her brain and forced a retreat. She walked back towards the city, back towards Valeria. It was still hours away, but at least she had that to look forward to. She found that the thrill of that impending meeting overwhelmed her shame, a shame well-earned over the last twenty four hours, and she chastised herself for this imbalance. Her inability to be alone, to truly be alone, was her greatest weakness. Her need to secure herself onto the hull of another ship is what got her into the mess with Snowmantashi in the first place, all those years ago. And, more recently, she’d done the same with the Basterd. The Nephews hadn’t been gone longer than an hour before she’d resolved to visit his room. The room where… The room where she’d left the body. She wondered if he was still washing his hands. A church clock told her that she still had two and a half hours to wait until her meeting with Valeria. She dug her fingernails into the wooden bench on which she sat, her teeth grinding together involuntarily. She put it down to withdrawal. It was the first time today that she’d thought about her habits. Indulging them had never been further from her mind. She had only three things left to do: to see Valeria, to say goodbye, and to leave. A group of young men stared and pointed at her as they passed, as groups of young men had been doing all day. Perhaps it was the mask. Or maybe they’d recognised her. Their jeers drove the image of Valeria from her mind and she hated them for it. She might’ve mounted a lunge herself, modelled after the haggard exploits of her vagrant beneficiary, if it wasn’t for the ringing of a payphone right next to her ear. She flinched and recoiled, involuntarily swatting at the receiver and knocking it from its hook. The ringing stopped. She stared at the receiver, dangling on the end of its chord, blowing gently in the wind. “Michelle?” asked a voice on the other end of the line. It was familiar but muffled. She knew that he must have been a long way away. “Is that you, Dreamer?”She was fixed in place, immobilised by this sudden and unexpected interjection. In this stasis, she realised that the city’s telephones had been chasing her specifically. Should she have wanted them to stop, all she had to do was answer one. To open up. She reached out and touched the receiver. Paused again. She didn’t know if she wanted another goodbye today, least of all with him. Their difficult history had left a deep impression upon them both. “Do you know how difficult it is to keep this line open, Michelle?” the voice continued. “I can see you now: sitting on a park bench in Mexico City, moping and feeling sorry for yourself, engaging in drawn out internal monologues that Uncle would be lucky to verbalise. This will be your last chance to speak to any of us for a while. So I suggest you take it. I’m hanging up in five… four… three… two…”“Thomas,” she said, finally. The name caught in her throat. Of all of them to reach out, why was it him? “Why are you phoning me?”“Because we’re leaving, Michelle,” he said. “We’re leaving and I thought you’d want more than that note Uncle left. For a man renowned for pompous verbosity, that sure was cheap.”“Yes, but…” she stammered again. Words were difficult. Everything was difficult. “But why you?”She heard the podcast host sigh deeply on the other end of the line. “Because nobody else had the balls to defy Uncle!” he began, boldly. And then, less boldly: “and because I can’t help but think that maybe all of this is my fault. You know, what happened at the Carnal Contendership? Well… that was really the start of all of this, wasn’t it?”Unexpectedly, she laughed. She’d been on the verge of tears all day, but right now she surprised herself by softly chuckling at the Nephew’s errant analysis. “Thomas…” she began, not knowing where to begin. “This all started long before you or Uncle or any of the Nephews came into my life. And it’ll keep going long after you leave it. You were just a chapter. A sad one, yes, but amongst many others like it. Don’t flatter yourself.”“Be that as it may,” West replied, through gritted teeth. It was clear that his pride had been hurt, but he persevered regardless. “You seemed, well, you seemed sort of broken after your match. And I bear my portion of responsibility.”“Very noble,” she offered. “But you don’t know the half of it. I made a series of bad decisions last night, both in the ring and after I’d left it. One bigger than any of the others. I think I need to leave. Somewhere new. Somewhere I can disappear.”Thomas thought for a handful of moments. Michelle could only think about the dead girl in Shawn's hotel room. “You ever been to Shanghai?” he asked. “No,” she said. “Go to Shanghai,” he suggested. “Good theatre there.”“Maybe I will.”He offered no response. Her mind drifted to the start of the conversation, and to the worryingly accurate description Thomas had given of her current mental state. “Can you really see me?” she asked, eventually. “Like you said?”“Not really, I was just guessing what you were doing,” he answered. “Was I close?”“Pretty close,” she allowed. “Goodbye, Thomas.”“Hasta luego, Dreamer,” he said. “That means until next time.”And then he was gone. She found El Lobo where Valeria said she’d find it, on a corner opposite the bus terminal next to a disused fire station. She ordered a whiskey for herself and a tequila for the other, even though she wasn’t due for at least another hour. Maybe she’d be early. Michelle sipped anxiously at her drink and waited. It was peculiar to awaken from a waking state. But that's what she did: her eyes jolting open again to regard the same sunset, the same Almond Blossoms, and the same four women that she had the last time she'd been stirred awake. Or, maybe, stirred into a deeper dreamland still. It was difficult to say for sure either way. “Welcome back,” the artist said. “Feel enlightened?”“Not especially,” Michelle answered. “I barely thought about Shawn at all.”“That was never a problem for you in the past,” interjected the office drone, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “I had forgotten about Thomas, though,” Dreamer admitted. “About his call. Too many farewells for one day.”“That was your choice,” the artist said. “You decided to run away.”“I decided to run away,” Michelle agreed. A moment of silence transpired, during which the artist regarded Dreamer thoughtfully. There was no pity in her eyes. Only disappointment. “Why?” she asked, eventually. “Why did you leave?”“Isn’t that obvious? I left because of what happened with the kaiju.”“The kaiju,” the artist began, with a grin that resembled a smirk. “Not the Basterd?”Michelle gritted her teeth at the mention of his sobriquet. More specifically, she was wounded by the accusation. She had spent a year musing upon her departure after making it, and managed to convince herself that she was running away from only Snowmantashi. Her mistake with Summers was only that: a mistake. An addendum to her shame. “You left because of them both,” the artist continued, as though her analysis was confirmed by the moment of silence. “The Kaiju was a professional humbling. The Basterd was a personal one.”“Not quite,” Michelle started. The artist’s scratching at the surface had uncovered what was buried beneath. Something that she’d been acutely aware of since she’d left Mexico City with her tail between her legs. “It’s more than that. Snowmantashi was also a personal defeat, just as much as it was a professional one. That was meant to be the end point. Of everything I’ve been through for the last six years. Of my whole story. When he defeated me at 5-Star Attraction, more than half a decade ago, it drove me away from the business. Away from the continent, even/ I tried to stick it out but the failure hung over my head like the sword of Damocles. It was no use. I was broken and defeated and going through the motions. I left, thinking the story had ended, and that the ending was a sad one. But eventually I began to believe again. That it wasn’t over. That an ending could be re-written. And even if it wasn’t going to be a happy one - because it was never going to be a happy one - it at least wouldn’t be quite so pathetic.
“But then it happened. Again. Exactly the same.
“The Basterd? A personal failure, maybe. A humbling, more accurately. He was an acceptance of my lack of self-worth. A surrender to the misogynists who have doubted and criticised and beleaguered me for my entire career. It was a confession. I am what they say I am. I am nothing. Nobody.”Another period of silence. Still no pity from the artist. She watched on as Michelle opened her soul and subjugated herself, a slave to her own feelings. She watched on and she sneered. “Maybe not everyone has a kaiju,” the professor suggested, opaquely, as she continued to scratch her rapidly shrinking chalk upon her blackboard. “Not everyone has a Basterd.”“But we had our Basterds,” the office drone added. “You’ll remember, no doubt. Our own Shawns. And we overcame them, each in our own way.”“How?” Michelle enquired, with genuine curiosity. The artist’s grin only grew. “The only way one can deal with a man like that,” she answered. “The sword is mightier than the pen,” the professor interjected. “That’s why you brought me here?” Michelle asked. “To convince me of the virtues of revenge? Seems pretty cheap.”“Don’t act like you’re above it,” the artist returned. “Volume 90,” the secretary illustrated, after checking her list. “Grotesque Arabesque. And vol –”“You don’t need to list them all,” Michelle snapped. “I’m not above revenge. But maybe I’m beyond it.”“Revenge is such a vulgar word,” the artist mused. “I prefer to think of it as a re-balancing. I’d argue that our lust for what you call revenge is the same as your act of penitence towards the vagrant in Mexico City.”“It’s not really the same,” Michelle said. “It is,” insisted the artist. “In both cases, a wrong needed to be re-balanced.”“What did you do to him, anyway?” the office drone enquired. “I guess we’ll find out,” the artist said. She gripped Michelle by the shoulder, and once more she was expelled from this plane to an even more remote once within herself. PART TWO.“The kaiju and the Basterd.” 23rd July, 2023. 09:00.[twelve hours after j.s.]“So what do you want to know?” Valeria asked, as another glass of neat, strong tequila was placed down next to her empty one. Michelle prided herself on her ability to outpace all comers when it came to drinking, even managing to do so on a long and rainy evening she'd spent with Alyster Black many moons ago. Not that anyone remembered it, outside the two of them. She wasn't even sure that Alyster did. If that night meant anything to him like it did to her, he had a funny way of showing it. ”I want to know how you got here,” Michelle said. She continued to nurse her own whiskey, two ice cubes now melted inside the glass and diluting the bitter amber. It didn't taste like it usually did. The weight of the last twelve hours pushed down on her shoulders, and even the simplest, purest of pleasures - like whiskey and cocaine and weed - had temporarily lost their effect. At least she hoped it was temporary. The last twelve hours, along with twinned walking nightmares in the kaiju and the Basterd, were also responsible for her current line of questioning. She was looking for anything to take her mind off those two humbling defeats. Perhaps conversation would suffice where cocaine had failed. The universe - the one that Uncle had shown her and then denied her - had produced for her this strange and violent girl with which to drag her mind from recent disasters. “To Mexico City?” Valeria asked. Michelle nodded her head. The other shrugged her shoulders, a dismissive expression upon her face. It appeared she had little regard for her own past. “I took the bus.”Michelle narrowed her eyes. Now wasn't the time for evasiveness. The spectres of Snowmantashi and Summers crept more closely towards her. “I don't mean logistically speaking,” Michelle snapped back. She noticed that she was tapping the bottom of her glass repeatedly against the top of the table but couldn't muster the strength to suppress the tick. “I mean what brought you here. Why are you here, doing what you do?”“You really want to know?” checked Valeria, after exuding a deep sigh and taking another hearty pull from her tequila. “Why questions rarely have happy answers.”Dreamer nodded her head and waved her on. Valeria locked in with unerring eye contact, uncomfortable and unwavering. Michelle shuffled uncomfortably beneath the weight of it, but found this heaviness preferable to that of the kaiju and the Basterd. “My father died before I was born,” she began, in a tone that seemed unsuitably matter-of-fact. “Don't feel sorry for me. He was a bastard, apparently. That's what all the men in the fishing village I grew up in said. I obviously never met him. My mother was single and a drunk until I was ten, when she met the Captain, Roberto. Roberto said he was a whaler but I don't know if he ever killed any whales. He had the ship and the crew for it but not the temperament. More suited to the minnows.”As Valeria continued with the tale, her eye contact wavered slightly. As though the memories were flooding her consciousness and removing her from the present. Michelle gripped her glass more tightly, entranced, caught in the other’s spell. “Roberto ruined my mother, emotionally and financially and physically. She still had some money left over from the inheritance. A small amount that she hadn't spent on booze. But he took all that as investments. Once his boat was seaworthy, he insisted, he'd be back on the waves and the whales would be cursing his name again. Then he’d return, and our investments would be repaid tenfold. Eventually, thanks to my mother's nest egg, his boat was ready and he was gone. She still pined for his return, even after the consumption left her bedridden and docile. Needless to say, he didn't come back to the village. She died three years later.”Here, Valeria paused. Dreamer found it difficult to tell whether that was the end of the story, or only of a particularly painful first act. After a few moments of solemn, silent reflection, Valeria snapped out of her malaise to motion at the bartender. “¿Se te acabó el tequila, hombre?” she shouted, anger stirred within her by the tale and directed at the unsuspecting young man behind the bar. “Botella nueva, chica,” he returned. She held up her empty glass, prompting the man to approach and fill it up. She placed a finger down on the table. “¿Por qué no dejas la botella aquí?” she said. He shrugged in acquiescence, returning to his station and leaving the bottle behind. Dreamer's own glass was empty and Valeria began filling it with the local blend before Michelle could insist otherwise. The first sip would be the worst and she delayed it for as long as she could. Valeria finished two glasses in silence before Michelle interjected. “Did you ever see him again?” she asked. Valeria rolled her eyes, dissatisfied at being dragged back into the past against her will. “Five years later,” she said. “I was living in a different town, fifty kilometres up the coast. I recognised his boat in the harbour. Would've recognised it anywhere. But he didn't remember me. The day I saw his boat again was the last one I ever worked in the kitchens. He needed labour for his crew and I was happy to work for peanuts. For two months, I scrubbed his decks and raised his masts and washed his dishes. Until I saw land again.”Here she smiled. These memories were happier ones. “I had gone back to the kitchens once more after seeing the boat to steal a knife. My first one. It was for cutting meat, really, but the principles are exactly the same. I carried it around with me for two months on the boat, and now as we approached the land again I got my chance. I was chosen to serve the Captain his supper in his cabin, as I had on many nights before. He was fond of young and pretty things, and I was a young and pretty thing. As I slipped the blade of my knife between the blades of his shoulders, he finally remembered me. I could tell from the fear and hatred in his eyes that he finally remembered me.”She laughed, somewhat maniacally, and then filled her glass up to the top with tequila. “Fortunately I could swim,” she announced, triumphantly, before half-draining her drink. “And you just never stopped?” Michelle asked. “Once wasn't enough?”“I don't go around stabbing people anymore,” Valeria said, defensively. “At least so far as it can be helped, in my line of work.”“Revenge is a powerful motivator,” Michelle replied, whilst internally vowing to resist this power. “And you?” Valeria returned. “What brought you here?”An image of the dead girl in the bed. A pale arm limply hanging over the side of the bed. White sheets stained red. She could hear the tap running. The frantic washing of a pair of hands that shared her guilt. “I was born here,” Michelle answered. Only a few hours ago. Valeria narrowed her eyes and cocked an eyebrow, her disbelief plain. But your Spanish is terrible, Dreamer imagined her thinking. “And you intend to stay here?”“No,” Dreamer answered. “I intend to leave. Tonight.”I intend to run away. I mean to hide.“Where will you go?”“Tokyo at first. But not for long. Then somewhere new. I don't know where exactly.”Valeria's raised eyebrow crept even further up her forehead. “Something tells me you have a Captain of your own,” Valeria said. Michelle's silence was telling, bringing a grin from the other woman. “What's his name?”Shawn, Uncle, or Jon, she thought. Or maybe Bell. “Does it matter?”“I guess it doesn't.”“What would you do?” Michelle asked, in earnest. ”If you were me.””I’m not you,” Valeria replied. “And I don't give advice.”“It's usually the people who say that that end up giving advice,” Michelle said. “Then maybe you'll get lucky this evening,” Valeria returned, suggestively. She finished her drink, fastened the cap back onto the half-empty bottle, and placed it into her bag. She then eyed Michelle's unfinished tequila reproachfully. “I can meet for drinks, if you'd like to and you feel more like drinking by then. It's not fun to drink alone, Michelle.”Dreamer disagreed. Most of her best drinking was done alone. But she nodded her head excitedly, nonetheless. “Nine o'clock. El Lobo. It's near the bus station, but I doubt you can get one to Tokyo. To the airport, maybe.”“To the coast,” Michelle corrected. “I don't fly.”“I do, in dreams,” Valeria announced, proudly. Then she lit a cigarette and marched out of the bar. Michelle exited a short time later with the intention of aimlessly walking around the city, leaving an untouched glass of tequila behind. She left the bar a few minutes later and the ringing of the payphones that had begun to act as a diegetic symphony underpinning her day returned. As did the kaiju and the Basterd. She sat on a bench on the perimeter of a city park, the hot morning sun beginning to make its ascent. They loomed over her, a few paces away on the dirt path, both tall but one around twice as broad as the other. Both had smiles on their faces. Snowmantashi’s was particularly unsightly and unnerving. “Are you going to follow me around forever?” Michelle asked, loudly so as to overcome the incessant ringing of a nearby payphone. “Only until you do something about it,” the kaiju answered. “I already blew up your dojo,” Michelle returned. “What more do you want?”“I wasn't there,” he said, pointedly. He wasn't here, either. That much was obvious even before the pair dissolved into fragments simultaneously, the spell of their presence broken by the abrupt pestering of a nearby vagrant. She should've thanked him, really. He'd succeeded in driving Snowmantashi and Summers from her head, something that she'd failed to do herself for a few years and a few hours respectively. But she didn't thank him. As he stood before her with an outstretched and expectant hand, she didn't even pity him. Instead, she felt a vague annoyance at his general existence, for although he was saving her from visions of the kaiju and the Basterd, he was also depriving her of the idea of Valeria, which was temporarily her favourite distraction. “Can you cash a check?” she asked, with a barely suppressed snicker. It was cruel, but she had imagined he wouldn't understand her anyway. Unfortunately, she had apparently been approached by Mexico's foremost homeless polyglot. He spat on the floor, and fixed upon her a glance that registered both disdain and perfect comprehension. Puta, he muttered, alongside a handful of other slurred curses. Instinctively, her fingertips ran across the blade of the confiscated knife in her pocket. Anger stirred within her, though she resisted her more violent instincts. She has one dead body on her hands already today. Instead, she took one quick, sudden step towards him, feigning an attack that didn't follow. It was enough to break the vagrant's already frayed nerves, though, sending him sprawling backwards into the grass and a number of coins to fall out of his pocket. They scattered across the dirt track and he scrambled to collect them. He didn't look at her again, instead choosing to scamper off in the direction of the nearest exit. She laughed to herself again, but her amusement was halted when she looked across the park. A young mother pushed a pram across the path on the opposite side of the field, but close enough to have witnessed the sorry scene beforehand. The mother shook her head in distaste and then continued with her walk. More Basterd than kaiju, Michelle thought to herself. She spent the next few hours trying to find him, hoping to at least relieve herself or one of the burdens of shame that she wore heavily upon her shoulders, chased around the city streets by the never-ending wails of hostile payphones. A phantom no more. There were a few comfortable moments during which Michelle didn’t know where she was. She remembered when she saw the sunset. The artist sat next to her on the L-shaped couch in the corner, just out of view as she opened her eyes. She announced her presence.
“Very telling,” she said. “The backstory explains a lot. Why you were drawn to her. Even then, whilst you hid the fact from yourself, you knew that a re-balancing was necessary.”
“Or revenge,” the professor added. “If you want to be vulgar.”
“And what did her revenge bring her?” Michelle asked. “Valeria had become so used to violence that in the process it became her way of life. Second nature. What sort of an existence is that?”
“Sounds a lot like yours,” the office drone quipped.
“Like ours,” the professor corrected.
“Because you gave in, too,” Michelle answered back. “To your lust and your anger. Your pride wouldn’t let you run away. Wouldn’t let you hide. I came back, didn’t I?! I came back to fight. Dressed as a weasel for a while, maybe, but I was here! And my visibility only brought him out of the woodwork, to play his vile games.”
She felt like a cornered animal, as though her variants were closing in. She realised that she was breathing heavily. She shook her head at the futility of it all.
“I should’ve stayed in Shanghai.”
“Taking action can have consequences, yes,” the artist began to explain. “We all know that. We had to live with the consequences of our own revenge, justified though it was. But inaction can spiral out of control, too. You recognised this when you returned from Shanghai. Even in those moments that you just re-lived, you recognised that inaction with the vagrant would only compound your shame. Revenge and justice are the same thing.”
“That interlude only served to prove that we are more similar than I’d care to admit,” Michelle countered. “The Basterd and I. At least when I’m awake.”
“You might be more Basterd than kaiju,” the artist conceded. “But your relationship with your anger is different to his. It may overcome you for a time, but you are not its slave. You are able to control it, and not let it control you.”
“Who is the dead girl?” the professor asked, suddenly. Michelle didn’t answer immediately, instead choosing to regulate her breathing, which had once again quickened and grown irregular.
“Who is the dead girl?” the artist repeated, in little more than a whisper.
“I can’t remember,” Michelle lied, her eyes forced shut.
She felt the artist’s cold hand against her shoulder. Once more, she slipped away. PART ONE.“Pretty Girls Make Graves.” 23rd July, 2023. 05:00.[eight hours after j.s.]She was ready to leave. She'd been here too long and could feel the room's atmosphere pushing down upon her. It stank of sex and death. She could hear the sink running and the frantic washing of his clumsy hands. Try as he might, he couldn't cleanse them. He cursed himself and his wasted efforts and went on in his impotence. The body was in the bed. The body that they'd made together in the bed that they'd shared together, in which she'd let him take her and found that he wished to be taken himself. Figures. For all of his conveyed superiority and implied dominance, the boy - and he was a boy - was as eager to submit as the rest of them. The human condition. She had got as much out of him as she could, the lust for him and his blood - alongside his peculiar brand of sleaze that she struggled to resist - blinding her to what would come afterwards. Now it was here, manifested as a dead body in his hotel room bed, slowly staining the white sheets a deep shade of purplish red. She was already in the doorway but she reapproached the bed, unable to help herself from one more glance at the body. Her body. A pale arm hung limply over the side of the bed. She peeled back the sheets, fabric unsticking itself from blood and broken skin, and ran her hands through her hair. I'm sorry, she said, to both her living self and the dead one. I guess this is goodbye. She left the room and the body and the Basterd washing his hands. A sad end and a sad beginning. She walked the streets of Mexico City before the sun had shown her face. It was mostly quiet, the city taking a deep breath before it lurched forward into another loud, chaotic day. She wished it would swallow her whole but knew that no such luck existed. This day would come at least, and she was too weak to go anywhere else. Too weak to run away. This realization terrified her. The shame came in waves. She was immobilised. Shut down. Nothing. Nobody. No sound, no vision. Just… there, for a long time, until life called to remind her that she was still a part of it. Her return to consciousness was accompanied - perhaps even orchestrated - by a payphone ringing on an otherwise silent road. She stared at it for more than a few moments, part of her convinced that it was ringing for her. The urge to pick up the receiver fought within her against her desire to be alone, to run away and to hide. She was too weak to leave the city, at least for now, but she was still strong enough to resist the telephone's power. She continued in her aimless meandering. She only found one shop that was open, and from it she bought a masquerade mask, black and silver and with a long, pointed nose. The man behind the counter told her it was a scaramuccia, imported from Venice itself. She considered engaging with him, asking him why he was the only shop in the city that was open, and why he sold the one item that could've stirred her to part with her last handful of pesos. Instead, she simply put on the mask and continued on her way. She felt a little safer like this. As if this extravagant and ostentatious piece might somehow allow her to more readily blend in with this rougher part of the city. The precise opposite was true, of course, but Michelle felt quite suddenly invisible to eyes that might recognise her, which were the eyes that were most important to avoid. The mask brought with it a sense of liberation: for a moment she was a phantom and not a ghost, and the city was her haunting ground. The only hurdle to her anonymity were the payphones that would now frequently ring out as she approached. This strange shadowing only made her more cautious. She avoided banks of telephones and perched in dark corners, watching the early morning foot traffic and the short bursts of arrivals from the adjacent train station. Amongst these bursts was a young man who wore his rucksack low on his back, seemingly dead on his feet from a long night of travel or heavy booze or both. He wasn't from around here, that much was obvious. He stumbled out of the station and directly into a local woman. She held him steady and patted him on the shoulder. He apologised enthusiastically, trying his hand at the local tongue with seemingly satisfactory results. The young tourist turned to walk away, and the local woman's next movement was as precise as it was subtle. She flicked out a switchblade and made a cut in the side pocket of his rucksack. Three items fell out, but each were snatched out of the air before they hit the ground. The blade was hidden again in another instant, the woman - young herself but far from innocent - already on her way in the opposite direction. Instinctively, Michelle decided to follow her. She was more thrilled than scared, and her new role of street phantom emboldened her to dart between the shadows, following the girl into an alley a few blocks away from the station. The girl had her back to Michelle as she approached, counting a wad of American notes that she'd removed from a discarded wallet. The phantom was quiet, but not quite silent, and as she came within arm's reach the local woman slashed at her, the blade in her hand passing only centimetres from Michelle's chest. Before she could make her next move, Dreamer caught the outthrust limb by the wrist, twisting it just hard enough for her to release the knife. She caught it with her other hand, staring down at the sharp edge of the switchblade for a moment before folding it away. “You're going to steal from me, chica?” the girl asked. She still clenched the evening's take in her other hand. “I'm not a thief,” Michelle answered. She let go of the other's wrist, and even offered to return the knife to her by extending it between them. “Keep it,” the girl replied. “I've got others. What's with the mask? Sure looks like something a thief would wear.”Michelle lifted the mask from her eyes, positioning it on the back of her neck and attempting to return the other's gaze. She found that she could for only a handful of seconds before having to turn away from the woman's dark and piercing eyes. “I'm Michelle,” she said, finally, whilst looking at the ground. “I saw what you did back there, and I…”Dreamer trailed off. She didn't know what she wanted, exactly. But she was here, in a dark alley with a strange woman. “Valeria,” the other returned. “Spit it out. What do you want?”“I thought maybe you could buy me a drink,” Michelle suggested. Valeria placed the dollars into her back pocket and smiled. “It’s obvious,” the artist said, no sooner than Michelle had regained herself. The sun was now nothing more than an orange glow on the lip of the horizon. Gloom had settled around this otherworldly band of distant light. “Nothing’s ever obvious,” Michelle countered. “We should’ve seen it coming, really,” the professor said. “You’re always dying.”“Volume 50,” the secretary said. “Untitled C.C. Project. And volume 74, Przypadek. Volume 56, It Tolls For Three, and Volume 91, Afterlife 1.0, and –”“Okay, we understand,” Michelle said, rising to her feet on the wave of her anger. She snatched the clipboard from the secretary’s desk and tore her list into shreds. “I die a lot. I understand. Are you trying to reassure me?”“I’m only here to help,” the secretary said, stern even in her subservience. “You left a part of yourself in that hotel room,” the artist began, bringing Michelle’s attention back to her and away from her rage. The secretary, unperturbed by the outburst, continued on her typewriter. “Maybe all of you. That’s what you’re scared of. Less of you left the ring with the kaiju than entered it, and then most of that stayed in the Basterd’s hotel room.”Michelle said nothing. Nodded her head. “You know what the answer is, don’t you?” the artist asked. “You must destroy the past,” the professor said, quoting Valeria at the start of it all. At the end of it all. “Before it destroys you.”For a brief moment - a fraction of a second - Michelle stood in that familiar hotel room. The same body lay in the bed. The same sounds of frantic panic emanated from the bathroom. It was exactly the same. She crept towards the bed, as she had done twice before. A pale arm hung limply over the edge of the bed. Michelle placed her hand upon her own shoulder. A sudden, violent intake of breath. Dead bodies don’t breath, she thought. The girl sat up. Her green eyes opened, full of life and lust and hatred. A brief moment. A fraction of a second. |
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Shawn
FWA Alumni
Posts: 5
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Post by Shawn on Jul 29, 2024 2:45:16 GMT
Click:
To celebrate ten years of
Danny "Fucking" Toner
and
"Rockstar" Randy Ramon
in the most appropriate way possible.
Or bite my shiny metal ass.
I could honestly go either way.
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Ozymandias
FWA Wrestler
we are still live
Posts: 30
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Post by Ozymandias on Jul 29, 2024 3:10:03 GMT
Following is a promo submitted for Trios Battle Royale on behalf of the trio: Alejandro Giunti & Jin-ho & Luna PiperClick on the picture of Miss Victoria Vella (a new player in the game) below to access the promo:  |
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Post by Jimmy King on Jul 29, 2024 3:15:37 GMT
The Undisputed Xperience in... A normal day in New York
“Why do you think they call it The Big Apple?”
Jackson Fenix asks his friend Nate Savage as they sit on a park bench located in the middle of Central Park.
“I don’t know, Jax.”
Jackson shrugs and looks over to his left, where Xperienx Xtacee is sitting beside him. X seems to be in some sort of deep thought, or at least appears that way to Jackson, but that doesn’t stop him from asking his question.
“Hey X, why do you think they call it The Big Apple?”
Xtacee scratches his head with one finger while watching a squirrel climb a tree in the distance.
“As a gambling aficionado, I believe it had to do with horse racing when that was a thing in New York. The big prizes were called the big apples, and I guess that stuck.”
Jackson nods in intrigue at what he has just learned, and then he looks to his right again at Nate.
“Hey Nate…”
“I heard Jax.”
“Neat, well, is there anything to do here besides sitting on this bench? Monica? Antonio? Do you guys know of anything we can do here?”
Monica and Antonio, somehow sitting in the tree next to the bench, look at each other and softly chatter before Monica answers.
“Antonio just reminded me that sometimes there’s performances of Shakespeare that they do in the park here!”
“Yeah, it’s awesome, it’s like this cool Central Park tradition. I saw it online when I was looking for touristy stuff to do!”
Xtacee hops out of his seat and looks up at his lovers.
“I just hope they aren’t doing the one with the son that sleeps with his mother. I’m freaky, but I ain’t that freaky, baby.”
Nate looks weirded out by what Xtacee described, while Jackson just happily nods along.
“They don’t match your freak, huh?”
“What are you talking about, Jack?”
“Matching another person’s freak, it’s um, well, yeah, it’s probably best we don’t tell you now that I think about it.”
“Whatever, but I’m down for watching this Shakespeare play, Jack?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever! Bubbles, do you wanna go watch a play?”
Bubbles pops up behind the bench over Jackson’s shoulder and playfully honks his horn in response. Antonio carefully climbs down from the tree and catches Monica as she hops down to join the group.
Jackson stands up from the bench and begins to stretch, but he stops mid-stretch when he notices a familiar face standing a few feet away from the group.
“Elmo! Hey Elmo, is that you? What are you doing all the way here in New York?!”
It is indeed Elmo, but not the Elmo that Jackson is familiar with. The red suit he’s wearing is covered in stains of only God knows what, and it’s shaggy as all hell. Plus, he reeks of alcohol, as Jackson soon finds out when he approaches him for a hug. Jackson backs away immediately, waving his hand in his face.
“Pee-yew! Elmo, I didn’t know you were old enough to drink! Also, you look like you need a bath.”
Xtacee, now standing next to Nate, leans down to whisper something to him.
“Uhm, Mr. Nasty, I don’t think that’s the Elmo we all know and love.”
“Yeah, he looks like me at the frat house from college,” Antonio adds.
Monica leans down into Nate’s other ear to also whisper to him.
“I can teach you what matching freaks means…”
Nate looks at Monica and awkwardly smiles with his cheeks lightly turning red before turning to Xtacee.
“Yeah, I think you’re right, X. I don’t think Jackson realizes that, though, which unfortunately means we have to get near this thing to remove Jackson from the situation.”
Nate gets up from the bench and cautiously approaches Jackson, who is trying to have a conversation with Elmo. Nate instantly catches a whiff of foul stench radiating from Elmo, and he does his best to fight it.
“Uhm, Jax, buddy, this isn’t the Elmo that we all know.”
“I don’t know, Nate. I mean, he does smell a lot like alcohol and like he hasn’t bathed in years, but this could be the Elmo we know. Watch. To prove it to you, I’ll ask him a question that only he’ll know: Elmo, who started the fire on that one trip back with my Cibernetico team?”
Elmo stares at Jackson in total silence. Suddenly, it feels like time has stopped, and there’s no other sound happening around them at this very moment despite the fact that the park is heavy with activity at this time. You could hear a pin drop; it’s so quiet as Elmo stares blankly at Jackson without blinking, or no movement at all, to be exact. The marble-black eyes of this Elmo seem to engulf the attention of everyone staring at him into a cold, inescapable abyss. Each individual piece of fur that sticks out of the Elmo costume moves independently with the wind as if they are dancing to a tune only heard through the imaginary ears a synthetic piece of fabric can have. His orange nose, like the sun, mesmerizes as the only bright spot on Elmo’s head that draws any sense of cleanliness, perhaps because it is the furthest away from the rest of the costume. He is as stiff as a board and as lifeless as the dirt below his feet, yet the air around him radiates a sense of unease, danger, and a strong smell of Hennessy. Elmo stands there as if he is either an imposing God or a frozen, scared child on the first day of Kindergarten. We’re not even sure this Elmo knows where he is right at this very moment.
“Hey, uh, Elmo, are you there? I asked you a question.”
“Jax, I’m telling you this isn’t him.”
“Hey, Jackson, maybe we should leave him alone?” Monica chimes in with concern before Antonio adds on.
“Uhhhh, yeah, I think this might be that other Elmo. The Times Square Elmo… I read about him, too… Why is he in Central Park?”
“I think you can find your answer to that with the smell coming from him. He smells worse than The Lumberjacks do after they’ve been chopping wood all day," Nate responds with a nod.
“He smells like my club after Gabrielle is done with her clients.”
“He smells like that one time we all spent the night in that hotel room,” Jackson adds.
“I don’t remember that…oh”, Nate shudders.
“I remember everything,” Monica adds as she slaps Nate on the ass. Nate lets out a little yelp and holds his butt as his face now turns beet red.
“He smells worse than the dumpster that Trash Mammal lives in,” Jackson adds once more.
Bubbles joins the rest of the group and gets close to Elmo—unusually close. Bubbles gets so close that as he leans in, they are nose to nose, and Elmo still has not moved a muscle while this strange clown is nose to nose with him.
“Bubbles seems to like him…I think," Jackson says, somewhat unsure.
“This is weird, even for us,” Nate chimes in.
Bubbles swings around and puts his gloved index finger near Nate’s lips as if to tell him to be quiet. Bubbles then motions for the rest of the group to be quiet and mimics someone sleeping. They seem to all understand, except for Jackson, who is about to speak up, but Bubbles puts his finger to Jackson’s lips. Bubbles then pulls out his trusty horn, readies it up, and honks it repeatedly near Elmo’s ear. The horn is louder than usual, and this startles Elmo as he falls on his ass, but then quickly gathers himself before scattering away.
“I guess he was asleep,” Jackson says as he watches Elmo runoff.
“The clown can stop honking his horn now,” Nate says with annoyance, and Bubbles stops with a sheepish grin.
“Should we go to that play now?” Jackson asks
“Yes, darlings, let’s go before we encounter another drunk television mascot. Ah, I love New York.”
Xtacee pats Bubbles on the head and starts to walk away. The rest of the group follows Xtacee as they head to the play.
“I can’t wait to tell Big Bird about this,” Jackson says to the group. Nate shakes his head, while everyone else giggles at Jackson Fenix’s naivety and somewhat innocent nature.
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Post by Comeback Kid on Jul 29, 2024 4:46:38 GMT
 | I. MICHELLE HAS A PROBLEM Trevor Ocean wasn’t a complicated man. He grew up on values that many men did - treat others the way you want to be treated; respect your elders; maintain strong moral principles; appreciate what you have and recognize the good in your life and others. He hated how much these values had shaped his adult life but would never voice it. Trevor would internally agonize over his life choices and friendships built due to this and find himself in situations he easily could’ve avoided. In a way, he was no different than Shawn. There was a certain inner disdain he had for Shawn. He would never say it out loud because he would have to face his disdain for himself and wasn’t ready for that battle. Instead, he bottled up the emotion and put the energy into wrestling. He loved wrestling but hated the feelings it brought to him. Feelings of inadequacy, inferiority, guilt, and deception. Wrestling left Trevor feeling hollow. For Shawn, it seemed like a homecoming. As he lay on the ring’s canvas, eyes stinging from the blood draining into his sockets as the hum of the crowd buzzed into his ear he wondered if any of this would make returning to professional wrestling worth it.
There was a modicum of peace that came with him hiding away amongst the natives. They were already separated from the greater society, so he found it easy to leave a world that he dreamt of escaping in ways that would earn him sympathy from one-third of the world, contempt from the other third, and indifference from the final. When he saw Shawn for the first time since leaving it drove him to drown his cowardice with liquor and beer. When he saw him the first time after returning it burrowed a nervousness in him that stuck like a barb to the skin. No matter how far he ran or how much he wanted to separate his life from him, Shawn Summers would always be part of the Trevor Ocean story.
Shawn stood in the ring as the fusion of Cola and the fan's harassment acted as the backing track for this scene. The medical team entered the ring, carefully watching Shawn’s every move as they tended to the bloodied and battered Trevor. They were aware that like a cornered cobra, Shawn could strike at any moment. He hated how typecasted he was in the world of wrestling. They flinched and jumped to shield Trevor as Shawn left his spot in the ring and made for the ropes - he had no intention of hurting Trevor. That damage had been done long before.
Rupert shifted as Shawn moved, remaining out of sight. He flinched each time Shawn moved from his current position. “Stay back,” Rupert whispered, his voice steadier than he felt. There was an edge to Shawn and he didn’t want to lose control of the situation he created. A tinge of electricity slithered up his spine as Shawn turned and smiled at him while approaching the ropes. Shawn rested on the ropes, holding them open for Rupert to exit as his gaze returned to the medics and Trevor. The bottom button of Rupert's suit jacket danced through his fingers avoiding the hole as he fixed his appearance. Once the button finally rested in place, he stepped through the ropes only to stop. The weight of Shawn’s hand on his shoulder felt the same as the fangs of a snake piercing the skin, ejaculating droplets of paralyzing venom into the body. Shawn’s Baltic blue eyes met his and the sound of the arena became a muffle.
“Uncle Ru - are you in charge,” he said as if it were a question but Rupert knew it wasn’t. He felt a tremor but steadied his composure. Shawn continued, “You forced my hand. That doesn’t mean you're in charge. Remember that.” Shawn winks at Rupert and motions for him to leave as the soundtrack of the scene returns. Shawn follows Rupert up the ramp as the fans continue to shout and hurl their opinions at him. He had grown indifferent to them in the years since he started. Their opinions didn’t matter, but they were needed.
It had been only five minutes though he would tell you it’d been an hour’s wait for the medical team to rush past him with Trevor. The frantic bits of assurance they whispered to Trevor amused Shawn as he walked in their wake carrying a black leather duffle bag. He rested against the doorframe of the sterile clinical environment, watching as they carefully loaded Trevor onto the examination table, using washcloths to gingerly tend to the wounds and bruising that had begun to appear on his body.
“Everyone out of the room, please,” he commanded but none followed his orders. Their focus was on helping Trevor in any way possible and Shawn could not have that. Shawn left his spot in the doorway, approached the medical staff, and commanded again, “Everyone out of the room, please”. They exchange looks and cannot miss the tightening of his fist as he gazes at each of them, daring one of them to reject his order. It only took one of them to make for the door before all of them followed. He chuckled to himself at their cowardice, closing the door behind them with a soft click. The lock slid into place with a quiet, definitive snap. A rustling sound, fabric shifting, and a light sigh of relief capture his attention. Trevor, seated on the examination table, dabbed the cloth against his face smearing the blood and bruising until it gradually faded from his skin, leaving streaks on the white cloth. He maneuvered so that he could see his reflection in the mirror, working the dampened cloth over his face as he removed the final remnants of the ruse.
Trevor extended his hand toward Shawn, but they knew it wasn’t for a handshake. As Shawn handed him the duffle bag, Trevor quickly removed a bent-brimmed baseball cap, glasses, and a black hoodie. Trevor examined the hoodie before looking up at Shawn who shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s practically a hundred degrees outside and you bring me a fucking hoodie?”
“Forgive me for trying to help.”
"Wouldn’t need to be doing any of this if it weren’t for you and Rupert. Where is he anyways?”
“He’s where he needs to be and I’m where I need to be, Trevor.”
They shared a moment of silence as Trevor dressed himself, adjusting the fit in the mirror as Shawn stuffed the dirty clothes into the bag. Trevor avoided eye contact with Shawn as he dressed and when he did it was followed by eye rolls and curses under his breath. He tossed items at Shawn with force and sighed heavily once he was finished.
“I know the Steel Roulette jab wasn’t part of the plan -”
“You don’t say,” Trevor interrupted. A tinge of venom dripped from his words. “I worked my ass off to get that spot and then you go out there and just take it. Just like you’ve always done, Shawn.”
“I didn’t just take that opportunity from you. I made it bigger.”
“So, I should be thanking you?”
“I’m not saying that. I’m saying I brought relevance to that match that no one else has done since Carnal Contendership. Imagine how the fans will react when you show up at the Anniversary Show and reclaim your spot from me. You need that moment just like I needed this moment.”
Trevor gripped the padding of the examination table tightly and clenched his eyes shut as he came to an impasse about his role in all of this. Had he beaten Cyrus after Carnal Contendership would he have been put into a position to become involved in all of this, he wondered. Was it her fault that this happened? She had been the one to involve him to get under Shawn’s skin. He wanted to hate her for that but after their night of drinking, he couldn’t. She was so kind to him and even in the match she allowed him to do what he had wanted to do from the beginning - showcase his talents as a singles wrestler. It pained him to think that he had been part of a scheme to give Shawn an advantage over her.
“I didn’t want this to happen, Trev,” Shawn said as Trevor pulled his attention from inside and focused on him. Shawn’s eyes peered down and his body hung low against the countertops as he continued. “I wanted to keep us separate for as long as possible, but because of our history and who I am, it’s naive to have thought that this wouldn’t have happened. She pulled a play right out of my book and I have to commend her for that.”
Shawn was no stranger to involving those closest to his opponents in battle. It’s something that he quite enjoyed in the past - exploiting a point of vulnerability amongst his enemies. It surprised and disgusted him with how similar they were.
“Did you get what you needed from this,” Trevor questioned. Shawn hesitated to answer because he was not sure. Everything had gone according to plan, but he still felt something was missing. He dared not admit it, but it was the desire. He had no desire to face Michelle at Back in Business. He thought that recreating the atmosphere he was used to would somehow bring that back.
“Yeah. I did. I needed their hate and anger and I got it. They genuinely want me to lose to keep that streak intact and for revenge for what I did to you. At first, they booed just because of who I am and what I’ve done but, now, they have a reason. Thank you.”
Trevor shrugs off the hate and allows the silence to engulf the room. The question of if the wrestling world needed either of them raced through both of their minds, but it took residency in Shawn’s. Shawn had pondered if he needed wrestling as well, but to a lesser extent in the past compared to now. The wrestling world seems to have moved past him and everything leading up to the match before tonight just seemed like routine. “Would I have been better off staying in the van and traveling the country,” he wondered. He had found a solitude of peace that he never had with wrestling. Could wrestling ever provide that to him? He wanted to talk to Trevor about his feelings, but stopped before doing so. How could he come to him with his problems when he was Trevor’s biggest?
“When I leave here I’m heading up to New York until the show. You’re more than welcome to join if you want.”
“I figured they wouldn’t book me for the show and booked a trip to Europe to get my mind off things for a bit.”
“To see Noah…”
Trevor didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. They both knew that was the case and were fine with it being left unsaid. For the second year in a row, he’d be alone at Back in Business. He had come to accept that even though Rupert would be ringside with him he wasn’t there hoping for SHawn’s success. He was only going to be there for ringside seats to Michelle’s demise. He wondered what she did to draw his ire but it was useless to do so. Being alone out there against her was what he needed. It’s what they both needed to put a close to what happened in Mexico.
| II. PURE/SUMMER
Shawn had contemplated whether to fly or drive to New York. While flying would be easier and he would have more time to rest before Back in Business he longed for the feeling of driving across country to his next destination. It reminded him of his time in the van. He yearned for when life was simple and the freedom that came with living in his van.
Flying into New York reminded him too much of flying into Mexico for last year's event. He recalled the jealousy that filled his body as the fans waited for and showered Tommy and his family with idolization and well wishes upon his arrival leaving Shawn to navigate the terminal unnoticed. Still, he chose to fly and was quickly reminded of how many people occupied the city. The city had a way of robbing one of their main character complex. They went on about their lives indifferent to his presence. This type of anonymity afforded to him was something he could get used to even if the disgusting nature of the city turned him away. The scurry of rats and crowdedness of the city quickly reminded him why he enjoyed the west and northwest.
The trip to his dwellings in Brooklyn was shorter than he anticipated. He had refused to stay in a hotel since his time in Mexico and this trip wouldn’t be any different. The apartment felt compact for the price he’d paid. It didn’t matter though as he wouldn’t be staying long and it had the necessities - a stocked kitchen, an in-unit washer and dryer, a sound system, and a balcony. He searched through his phone for the perfect soundtrack for the day and chose Beyoncé’s Renaissance album. Since it release he had identified with the freedom and rebirth themes associated with the album. It wasn’t lost on him that the album was out of the norm for his usual rotation of rap and country. With the soundtrack for the night set, he sifted through the items on the bed folding and placing his clothes into a drawer and admiring keepsakes he brought with him.
The mini 2022 Back in Business poster featuring himself and Michael was special to him. Michael was the first person in the wrestling world that he saw as an equal. Even in defeat, he viewed Michael heavily and cherished the moments it produced. It had not been aware to him but, the last time he enjoyed the industry was when he was feuding with Michael. Maybe it was the nostalgia that made him think of the moments with fondness but those shared moments with Michael invigorated him in a way that Michelle couldn’t. His grip tightened on the poster and he focused on his render snarling at Michael. Would the friendship the two had developed after a year of turmoil still have happened had he won? The loss led him to the championship that he became synonymous with throughout 2023, but had he won would he have become the man that he is now?
Shawn placed the poster on the lip of the mirror in his room and continued putting items away. He came across the photo of himself lying amongst the jungle brush, his body covered in dirt and scratches. His face was a crimson mask contrasted only by the X and Television championships draped over his face. He couldn’t help but to smile at the memory of his fondest achievement to date. If you asked him today was it necessary to win the X-Championship on top of holding the Television Championship he would tell you “No, but, the desire to be the best was”.
Shawn placed the photo on the mirror and gazed at his reflection, studying the curves and contours of his face and the emotions written across it. He was familiar with the man staring at him from the mirror but he couldn’t help but admit that he was different from the one in the picture - that man driven versus the one staring at him racked with disillusion. While the man in the picture was motivated by being the best the man in the mirror couldn’t find a motivation for competing at Back in Business. He had spoken about how he wanted to cement himself in history by ending not only his losing streak at Back in Business but ending Michelle’s undefeated streak at the event. However, the desire to do so wasn’t there for him. In the past, a milestone accomplishment like that would have been energizing to him but he felt indifferent about winning or losing. He simply wanted to end things with Michelle and move on from his past.
Night came and Shawn left the apartment to explore the better parts of Brooklyn and grab a drink. It was mild night. The temperature wasn’t sweltering and there were less people walking about on account of it being a weeknight and most of them probably were getting settled in for bed. There was a calm in the air that Shawn quite enjoyed as he explored the different happenings of the neighborhood. He decided to make a stop into The Recliner a bar he’d overheard that Brooklyn Steiner kid talking about backstage one night. As the door closed behind him he felt himself instantly wanting to leave. The bar was dimly lit and what could be seen were things that you’d wish you hadn’t. A television rigged to the ceiling showed highlights of the latest Yankees game. The bar smelled of stale piss. He could leave to find another place, but he was tired and this was probably as good of a discrete bar as he’d get in this town.
The bartender was friendly enough and generous with the pours of Shawn’s rum and cokes. He had made a pact with himself to not look at the things around the bar less he see a rat or roaches and ruin the moment. However, his curiosity got the better of him and he started looking around the bar. It was practically empty save for himself and a few guys trying to look inconspicuous as the snorted lines off the table. New York sports memorabilia lined the walls. It felt like a museum of yesteryear - focusing on the good times of New York where sports championships were in abundance, crime families ruled the streets, and gentrification was something that hadn’t yet plagued them. His heart stopped and sank into his stomach when he saw her. She sat with her back to him. The table was near the back of the bar facing one of the televisions mounted to the ceiling. She swirled the ice around in her glass - signaling to the bartender that she would like another. Her hair rested just at her shoulders and looked like it hadn’t been washed in a few days. The ratty white t-shirt was browning in places from overwear. He didn’t need to see her face to know it was her.
He was unsure of why her being there startled him. This was exactly the type of bar and neighborhood that she would inhabit. The thought of leaving unnoticed by her filled his head, but he stayed. The glass infront of him was nearly full but that didn’t stop him from inhaling the liquor at once. His legs swayed and buckled as he stepped from the bar. He placed his hand on the top to steady himself before approaching her. Their eyes met as he swung around her table. The tension between the two was deafening.
“Hello, Tulip,” said Shawn. “Aren’t you going to invite me to sit?” “Please. I wondered when this would happen.” “You anticipated our meeting?” “It was inevitable, Shawn. I remember from that night that you enjoyed talking.”
Shawn reclined in his chair and glared at her with discontent for mentioning their shared night together. The moment was tense but he tried to break it with small talk.
“I want you to know that I had nothing to do with that tape getting out. I would never do that to you.”
“You would never do that to me, but you also didn’t try and stop its release.”
She placed a cigarette between her lips and reached for her lighter but must have misplaced it. She gazed at Shawn and he got the hint. He pulled out a lighter and lit her cigarette to which she responded with a nod. She exhaled the smoke out of Shawn’s direction as he continued to stare at her - caught in awe at how little she seemed to care about him or his presence. He stared at her from across the table, her face covered in shadows by the dim lighting of the bar.
“I can’t get into the thought of wrestling you," he said, his voice barely audible. She was listening though. She nodded, surprising him, and replied, “I know what you mean,” taking another drag from her cigarette.
“Tell me, do you remember our first match?” he asked, leaning forward in anticipation of her answer. She shook her head. “I’ve wrestled too many matches and had too many concussions. I can’t remember just one singular match.”
That match was everything to him. It was the first time he stood across from her. His knees had buckled and he almost fell due to the pressure her presence exerted. It was the first time he’d seen her skills and in-ring IQ firsthand. It was the first time that her aroma danced throughout his nostrils with each lockup and wrestling hold. He replayed that match repeatedly, trying to find a way to win. He never guessed the answer was lying with her in a hotel room in Mexico.
“What happens if you lose at Back in Business?” she asked, taking another drag of her cigarette. “Does it matter? I haven’t thought about it if I’m being honest,” he lied. “The streak lives on, I guess. Nothing new.”
She stood from her seat, excusing herself. “I need some air,” she said, heading outside. As she left, reality settled back in. Shawn looked down at his empty glass and realized he’d never left the bartop. He peered over to the table and confirmed that she wasn’t Michelle. Just another Brooklyn hipster trying to seem interesting in a run-down bar. He paid his tab, leaving more than necessary, and walked into the night. In his walk home, he couldn’t help but reach for the pack of cigarettes that had become a mainstay in his pocket. She had left them behind in Mexico and he dared not smoke one in fear of running out of them. He lit one, the taste bitter in his mouth, and wondered if she ever thought of him in the way that he thought of her.
Shawn’s walk back to his apartment should have been short, but it continued to extend as he wandered around the neighborhood in a drunken stupor. The night air was cool against his face. He stopped at a street corner and surveyed things around him. A rat scurried across the street into bushes. This normally would’ve been enough for him to run for home, but it had little effect on him. His mind was elsewhere - specifically Mexico with Tommy. Shawn was adamant that he would’ve easily won that match if not for other circumstances. He walked out of the match with the Television championship, but losing the X-Championship and the final fall was all people remembered. That, and him vacating the tile later that night, leaving the industry.
She was a distraction to his focus that weekend. He had given her that key to his hotel room at the bar on Friday night and she could’ve used it at any time. To choose the night before his match was calculated. If anyone asked him, he’d tell them that he had put everything from that weekend behind him. In reality, it was something that kept him up at night. It bothered him that something as small as hooking up with her could derail a year of dominance that was supposed to be capped off with a victory at Back in Business.
He could see his apartment stoop in the distance but took a turn as to avoid going home. He still had much on his mind and wasn’t ready for the night to end. Shawn found himself thinking about the life he’d built in his van, away from the wrestling world. The lifestyle called to him like an addiction called out to an addict. Try as he might to silence the thoughts about that life and the peace it brought, he couldn’t avoid the appeal of it.
He regretted returning to the wrestling world. It had moved on without him and he was no longer welcome. “Maybe that’s a good thing,” he wondered aloud. What would beating Michelle mean in the grand scheme of things? Would anyone care or would it go the route of Chris Kennedy’s streak where it was forgotten by the end of the night - overshadowed by a moment that proved to be much greater? Regardless, the wrestling would keep moving on.
He reached his apartment, pausing at the door as the thought replayed in his head. Though the wrestling world kept moving, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being stuck. He turned the key in the lock, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. | III: RENAISSANCE
The shrieking from cabinets opening and the creaking of feet pressing too hard amongst the floorboards pulled Shawn from his slumber. Instinctively, his hand reached for the loaded semi-automatic pistol tucked under his pillow. The cool metal of the firearm felt familiar in his grasp, a stark reminder of the precautions he once took with his life in the van.
The silence that engulfed the kitchen heightened his senses. Shawn lay still, his ears finely tuned to any signs of movement. The pistol rested on his lap, his grip firm but controlled. He listened intently, trying to discern the intentions of the person who had arrived. Shawn raced through scenarios, considering whether it was a kid hoping to land a quick score or an actual threat.
As the seconds ticked away, Shawn debated whether to make his presence known or to remain concealed. The air inside the apartment was hot and close, baked in the morning sun, and he could feel his heartbeat quickening in his ears. A tremble worked its way up his spine, then flowed down his shoulder and into his hand. He reached out and steadied it and the gun against the bed. He allowed one foot to rest against the floor, careful not to place too much weight on it as he shifted out of the bed, creeping toward the bedroom door.
Shawn’s breath caught in his throat as the floors alternated between creaking and buckling under the weight of the intruder's foot. He timed his movements from the bedroom to the living room with each movement of his counterpart. His eyes fixed on the kitchen, the weight of the pistol in his hands, no feeling both burdensome and necessary. The tension in the air was suffocating, and he braced himself for the confrontation that awaited him. The intruder was bold. They turned the water of the faucet and turned to meet the barrel of Shawn’s gun with a smile as he entered.
“I figured that in an apartment like this there would at least be instant coffee, but imagine my surprise when all I could find were those silly pods of flavored coffee. Never could figure out how to use that damn machine. Even with all of the lessons from the boys down at the station,” said the familiar voice of Sheriff Bill Harris.
Shawn breathed a sigh of relief as he slowly lowered the pistol, his hand still trembling with a mixture of fear and adrenaline. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself as he put the safety back on the pistol and sat it beside him before looking into Bill’s icy blue eyes.
“How many times do I have to tell you this Shawn? Don’t EVER pick up a gun and point it at someone unless you fully intend the sombitch’ you’re pointing it at. Are you going to shoot me, son," he questioned with an air of disappointment.
“Bill, you can’t keep doing this.” “Doing what?” “Showing up unannounced. Breaking into my homes. Saving me. You’ve got to stop it.” “Funny. I thought you’d be happy that someone cared enough to keep tabs on you and look after you from time to time. Oh, you left the door unlocked when you came in last night. Don’t do that. That’s what’s wrong with the people here in New York. You all get too comfortable and then you wake up with someone trying to make coffee in your kitchen." “I’m not a New Yorker,” Shawn shot back as he took a seat at the table. Sheriff Harris was well aware that Shawn wasn’t but enjoyed rilling him up in a way that others couldn’t. “That’s one thing that we can agree on, son.” “Might I ask what I’ve done to be graced by your presence, Sheriff? You’re a little far out of your jurisdiction.” “I wanted to see you before your big match. It’s become almost a thing for you and me at this point hasn’t it, Shawn.”
Shawn sat back in his chair analyzing the Sheriff. He tried to figure out what his angle was but couldn’t figure it out. He’d grown to view Sheriff Harris as almost a father figure in his life - someone who he could be himself about. However, he knew that every visit from Sheriff Harris was purposeful.
“I was quite proud of you when you left my house those months back, but you can imagine my surprise when I turned on the TV and saw you were up to your old ways. So much for a fresh start, ey, Shawn?” “It’s a little more complicated than you think.” “Please, help me and my small mind understand the complications of a woman being scorned and out for revenge over the man who brags to the entire world of his bedding of her.” His words were direct and to the point. There were no complications that could be explained when he laid it out like that.
“It’s like none of what you did during your time away even mattered. You go back to wrestling and instantly get entangled in the same bullshit that you left the industry because of. Then, to bring Trevor into the mix, ruining his moment.” Sheriff Harris shook his head and sipped from the water in his cup, spitting it back in disgust and pushing the cup away from him. Shawn dared not look at him. He knew that Bill was right in his disgust with not only the water but him.
“I never wanted any of this to happen. They forced my hand.” “No one forced your hand, Shawn. This is your life and you’re in charge. If someone forced your hand it's only because you allowed it.”
Sheriff Harris left Shawn in the apartment while he went to get coffee and explore New York. Left in the apartment with only his thoughts, Shawn showered and brushed his teeth thinking about what he had allowed to go on in his search for purpose within the industry. That night when Michelle came to his hotel he knew that she was using him, and in a way, he was using her too. He had not expected to become enamored with her in the process. He could say that she clouded his mind and was the reason that he lost against Tommy but that would be a lie and he knew it. She left him in that hotel room and was nowhere to be found after his loss - when he needed her the most. She left him hurt and vulnerable and he could admit that he wanted her to feel the same. However, he wasn’t sure if he could go through with physically harming her or rather anyone else.
It was midday when Bill returned to the apartment. Shawn heard him use the key to unlock the door and it was then that he realized that they weren’t in his possessions. Shawn asked him to follow him out onto the balcony and offered him one of Michelle’s cigarettes to smoke. Bill declined and opted instead for a Zyn pouch.
“I’d been thinking, Shawn said, “I don’t think I can go through with the match.” Bill shook his head and chuckled at Shawn’s revelation. He spat to the ground below and sighed deeply in Shawn’s direction. “You’re running again,” he said. “I thought you’re time in your van had taught you that no matter what you do you can’t run from what you must confront. Are you that thick-headed that that didn’t get through to you?” Sheriff Harris removed his hat and rubbed his forehead. “Facing her is inevitable. The longer you put it off the worse things will be for you. I thought you would’ve learned that but apparently, the whooping that Noah put on you wasn’t enough to teach you that.”
Shawn tried his hardest to not think about Noah. He feared that regardless of how things ended in the cabin that night, Noah wasn’t through with him. He relented on thinking about it less he’d never get any sleep or a moment's peace. Michelle wasn’t Noah though.
“Son, regardless of how you got here we both know that for you to truly move forward from your past is to confront it head-on. Michelle is the last part of your past that you need to confront to move forward."
The silence engulfed the area. Shawn allowed the truth of what Bill had to say to sink in. He knew that Bill was right. No amount of running would ever allow him to escape. He had to face her. He had to end it.
Bill rested a hand on Shawn’s shoulder drawing his gaze. “Get some rest,” he said. “You’ve got a lot to deal with tomorrow.”
Shawn nodded, watching as Bill dropped the apartment keys on the couch and exited. He stood on the balcony, taking a deep inhale of her cigarettes - the weight of the decision heavy on his shoulders. Despite the near 90-degree weather, he felt cold. He stared out into the city, struggling to hold his head up. He knew what he had to do.
Michelle’s last cigarette from the pack she left in Mexico rested between Shawn’s fingers as he sat in the loading docks of Madison Square Garden. The smoke danced in the night air, slowly disappearing through it ascension. He gazed at the glowing tip, reminiscing about the past months, the choices he’d made, and the excuses he made for his return to wrestling. “Had I made the right decision,” he wondered aloud.
The wrestling world was a siren, calling to him in hopes of leading him to peril. He shook his head and laughed - thinking he’d left it behind for good only to come running back. It thrilled him to hear the sound of the crowd - regardless of if they were booing or cheering. The feeling of standing on that stage made him feel invincible - a feeling he’d absorb and believe to be true until the bell rang and he felt the sting of a punch, chop, or slap from an opponent. Shawn wanted to leave, but he felt something was unresolved. Maybe it was Michelle, or maybe it was just the need to prove something to himself. Leaving has seemed simple enough. But it wasn’t. It never was.
He took a drag from the cigarette, the smoke danced in his lungs as he did so. He could’ve easily ignored the videos and the calls from Rupert, but he didn’t. Why was that? Was it because he secretly longed for the business that caused him so much pain? Was it because he knew that parts of him were tied to this world? He thought about last year's Back In Business in Mexico - replaying the match, the aftermath, and the press conference. He hadn’t realized how much that match and that weekend weighed on him.
He felt the heat from the cigarette on his fingertips as it burned to the filter. He flicked it away, watching as it bounced against the pavement and found rest amongst the dirt and gravel that littered the area.
The crack of tires pressing against gravel caught his attention as a black SUV stopped in front of him. The windows were tinted but the driver slowly rolled them down. He leaned out the window and posed a question. “Hey, man. Do you happen to know where Shawn Sumemrs is? I'm here to take him to the airport.”
Shawn opened his mouth to answer but stopped as the arena door opened. Rupert Watkins stepped out, his face stern as he examined the car a bit before turning to look down at Shawn. “What’re you doing out here? The show starts in an hour. You need to change into your ring gear and start warming up.”
Shawn nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He looked down at the empty pack of cigarettes in his hand and crushed them. The paper crumpled easily under his fingers as he threw it into a nearby trashcan.
A breeze swept through the loading dock. It was cool. He could hear the buzz of the city around them. A calm came over him that he hadn’t felt in a long time. He stood up, brushing off his pants as Rupert held the door open, the bright lights from the arena hallway guiding him inward. The familiar hum of the crowd that had already gathered in the arena warmed his ears. His chest felt tight, not from fear, but something close to it. As he walked down the corridor toward the arena, he realized that this was where he was meant to be - at least for now. |
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ETE
FWA Wrestler
Posts: 8 
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Post by ETE on Jul 29, 2024 5:06:46 GMT
It’s a quiet Wednesday night. A real rarity for Gabrielle sitting home alone at her place back in Dallas. A home she barely stays at anymore, but serves as almost a retreat from the rest of the World where she can relax and escape from everything in her life when she gets the chance. Here she can just be a Mother, just be a friend, just be a regular person away from the pressures of her Wrestling career, and of any hands palming the back of her head. Here she feels like she can answer phone calls from her Brother and not feel awkward talking to him. Here she can wear sweats, and comfortable shoes. Here she can go a few days without shaving her legs. Here she can be totally alone if that's what she wants.
Carmella is at her Fathers for the next week or so. The Gentleman is dealing with some Business dealings with one of his other ventures. Arthur Chase is busy filming some young hopeful Starlet for Latina Disgrace. Desmond Matthews is also busy filming another young hopeful Starlet for Stuffed Sluts. She’s got several nights off from dancing or appearing at The Right Side of the Bed Club back in Las Vegas. She’s got several days to just do nothing ahead of Back In Business.
It’s peaceful here, relaxing here. Her neighbours might fawn over her, but they’re harmless. Here she’s just Gabrielle again. Here she can reflect on all the things she’s done, and all the people she’s done.
Here she can sit with a glass of wine in her hand and fidget with the ring on her finger. The ring she might not hold possession of for too much longer. A ring Elizabeth Rose is seeking to take from her. It was so easy for ‘Lizzie’ to get exactly what she wanted from Gabrielle, admittedly it’s been easy for everyone to get what they want from her. The FWA wanted a Star with name value to give the rub to the new Generation and Gabrielle has provided that. The Gentleman wanted a featured attraction to promote the Club and Gabrielle has provided that. Desmond wanted to be rich and Gabrielle has provided that. Arthur wanted someone, well he just wanted someone easy and Gabrielle has provided that.
But while Gabrielle has wallowed in sadness and misery in the past, she feels none of that now. Win, lose or draw she loves being back in the ring. Perhaps the fact she can go to the Right Side of the Bed and just take her top off to a round of applause and chants of her name make any disappointment easy to move on from. Or it’s the sense of purpose that Desmond had given her when she thought she had nothing left for her. Maybe it’s the way Arthur often brags about how good Gabrielle is when she visits him on set.
She finds it easy to be happy now. Perhaps that harkens back to the Caramel Coated Goddess at her peak. She was so desired, so lusted after, so wanted. None of her wants or desires went unfulfilled, she feels that now too. She feels so accomplished, and that Hall of Fame ring on her finger is a permanent visualisation of that.
She wants to think and to say that in losing that ring, worst case scenario she loses to Lizzie and has to hand the ring over to her, that it wouldn’t affect her. It doesn’t mean she’s out of the Hall of Fame. It's just a piece of jewellery she can show off when she so wishes.
But it is not just a piece of jewellery.
It is so much more than that. It is a representation of her entire career. A representation of all the sacrifices, all the blood, sweat and tears. All the hours in the gym. All the backstage squabbles just to get an opportunity. It's a visual reward for the sinful things she found herself doing so men in charge would just give her an opportunity.
It's a reminder of the Back In Business Main Events, the World Titles, Mile High, Trial By Fire, The Great Siege, Executive Excellence, Jenny Ignito, Alyster Black, Chris Kennedy and every other match and name she came across in the ring.
That gold ring symbolises everything. Her last Back In Business Main Event was a decade ago, her last Championship win was three years ago, her last big moment was years ago. All that stuff fades. She was once regarded as consistently one of the top three Professional Wrestlers in the World, but that fades. She once held the record for the most combined days as an FWA World Champion, but that fades. She once laid claim to proudly being the most decorated woman in FWA history. She once could say she was undefeated in Mile High matches.
But those records get rewritten. Those streaks don't last forever. But the Hall of Fame does.
Her recent life choices, and her struggles in the ring may have rendered the memory of the once formidable Caramel Coated Goddess into a distant memory that most would struggle to even conjure up. But just being able to say she’s in the Hall of Fame means something. Being able to wear a piece of jewellery that denotes this means something, and means everything.
Gabrielle may never win another Championship for the rest of her days…and soon she may never get to wear this ring again for the rest of her days either…
Would Lizzie Rose even care that the ring she wants to claim means so much to Gabrielle?
...
...
...
“Yes it's true.” Gabrielle responds as she looks around the room, locking eyes with the man opposite her. “A big part of what inspired me to return when I did was Lizzie Rose, sorry Elizabeth Rose. Seeing her get taken advantage of and lead astray provoked some deep emotions out of me. I wasn’t the best friend or mentor to her, I can admit that.”
She pauses, the radio DJ opposite her who is interviewing her ahead of Back In Business doesn’t say anything, just letting Gabrielle catch her thoughts.
“Honestly seeing that from the outside, seeing people take advantage of Elizabeth made me realise that I did the same thing, and I’m not proud of that. She was such an innocent and pure young woman. Chasing her dream like I did some two decades ago myself. She deserved, and she deserves better than being used by other people like this. That twinkle in her eye, that determination she had when I first met her that made me go to bat for her and personally get her signed to the FWA, I don’t see that anymore. She’s a different person…” Gabrielle pauses again, clearly mulling and reflecting on her own words.
“But it's not all negative, she’s grown, she’s evolved, she’s developed a belief in herself that I often wondered if she’d ever find. She was so naive when we first met, too naive. It's why I took advantage of her, because it was so easy. I know I can't take advantage of her now, but others can and are doing so. Elizabeth deserves to be her own woman now, I can make that a reality. It wont make up for everything I did to her, but if nothing else it's a start and it's the least of what I owe her.”
It’s not going to be easy though, and I know this. She’ll put up a fight because she’s comfortable where she is, and because she’d love to brag about beating me twice at Back In Business, and love to take away my Hall of Fame ring. She’ll put up a fight because she’s started to realise her potential, the potential I saw in her all those years ago. I know it will be a struggle…”
...
...
...
Gabrielle suddenly gasps out for air desperately.
“Good girl” Desmond Matthews exclaims loudly.
She doesn’t reply, she just grins devilishly and wipes some drool from her chin. Her current situation is such a stark contrast to the woman whose words come from the Limousines sound system. That Gabrielle is so strong, so noble, she’s such a fighter. This Gabrielle is naked and on her knees.
“I know I’m going to have to force Elizabeth through the growth in her career that she deserves. I owe her that much. Beating me, and taking from me something I cherish could be such a moment for her. But to get to where she really should be, Elizabeth will have to be put through hell, she’ll have to suffer."
Desmond runs a hand through her hair almost lovingly as he looks down on her, before palming the back of her head. With a sweet moan her head is buried back in his lap. He grasps at a handful of her long dirty blonde hair to help her work her head up and down. The Limousine filed with the sound of her forehead bouncing off his abdomen.
“It's the only way to free her of the life she’s found herself in. I feel sorry for Elizabeth and what is being put in her head. That’s not the girl I knew. She was so sweet, so giving, always wanting to make the people around her happy. That's what people take advantage of though.”
A sinful muffled moan, and then a desperate gasp for air from Gabrielle.
“Such a good girl” Arthur Chase bellows.
There’s no reply from her, just a wicked smile on her lips as she brushes aside a strand of saliva that had run from her bottom lip. The room she’s in now is a World away from the room she occupied for that interview, an interview that one of the Casting Agents for Latina Disgrace is watching on their phone. The Gabrielle in that World was so singularly focused on Back In Business. This Gabrielle is naked and on her knees.
“Those people around her, Eternal they pretend that they care. They pretend that they admire her and want what is best for her. They pretend they love her, when in reality they are just using her for their own ambition, for their own perverse joy. It's sad to see when I know the real Lizzie Rose…and who she could be.”
Arthur runs a hand along her cheek almost sweetly as he looks down on her, before cupping her chin and pulling her back down onto himself. A joyful moan escapes her mouth just before he fills it. His other hand then grasps a handful of her hair as he bobs her head up and down. The suite Arthur was filming a random young ‘starlet’ in today filling with the sound of his balls smacking off her chin.
“But people in her position don't always see it. They hang onto whatever validation or worth their predicament gives them and it is all they see. No matter what happens, no matter how much everyone on the outside see’s it for what it truly is, she doesn’t see it that way at all. She’ll think they’re helping her get to what she desires.”
A devilish groan, a panicked whimper and then an eager gasp for air from Gabrielle.
“Gooooood girl.” The Gentleman states in his Texas drawl.
She doesn’t say anything in return, she just smirks sinfully before dabbing at her mascara that’s run down her face. The interview from this morning that The Gentleman is listening too ironically is practically from a different woman. That Gabrielle was looking forward to a fight, a struggle, a battle. This Gabrielle is naked and on her knees.
“But those desires aren’t really what she wants. It's just what she thinks she wants. It's what she has been made to believe will make her happy. And it probably does make her happy in the here and now, it can fulfil her desires and needs for now. But in the long run it can't be what she wants in life no matter how happy she might seem, no matter how easily she takes what they give her.”
The Gentleman lifts her chin up with one hand almost adoringly as he looks down at her before he grasps her hair in both hands which has been tied into two pigtails. She moans out in delight as he guides her back down to his crotch. His grip on her hair tightening as he pumps her head up and down. Gabrielle's new Office at The Right Side of the Bed filling with the sound of her mouth smacking into his crotch repeatedly.
“Poor Elizabeth has been put in this position by these people around her where they’re all taking advantage of her. They tell her exactly what to do and she obeys their commands almost blindly. I’m not saying this to mock or belittle her, I find it sad…”
In the Limousine the sound of Gabrielle’s head bouncing off of Desmond's stomach still fills any quiet moments.
“Don’t stop Slut, don’t stop!” Desmond bellows as he grips her hair tightly with both hands.
In the Hotel Suite the sound of Gabrielle’s chin and Arthur's balls slapping into each other echoes loudly.
“Don’t stop Whore, don’t stop!” Arthur yells out as he palms the back of her head with both hands.
In The Right Side of the Bed the sound of Gabrielle's mouth and The Gentleman’s crotch meeting almost drowns out the music playing elsewhere in the Club.
“Don’t stop Bimbo, don’t stop!” The Gentleman grunts as he continues to grip her hair handlebars with both hands.
In all three places during this day Gabrielle obeys the words of those men completely. Desmond, Arthur and The Gentleman all encourage her to just keep sucking away, and offer up no resistance to the different grips they all took on her head. Just obey their desire for her to choose their pleasure over her own comfort and ability to breathe.
“Sad because I know how this all ends for Elizabeth. I know where her path leads, I’ve seen it before…and it always ends the exact same way. When those people are done with her, they will just push her aside and leave her there…”
Desmond grunts out in absolute glee.
Gabrielle can't say anything. It's rude and unladylike to talk with your mouth full.
He grips her head tightly, clutching her hair as he just holds her there. A garbled, stifled moan escaping her throat as he grunts out even louder. Then silence in the limousine, except for Sean the driver applauding. He holds her there for a few moments and stares down into her eyes. Finally Desmond releases his grip on her hair and allows Gabrielle to slide her head back fully.
She gasps out for air desperately once again, and wipes some drool from her chin as she kneels between his legs.
“That’s my greedy little Slut, swallow it all.” He exclaims before playfully pushing her over and onto her back. She just lays there naked and sticky on the floor of the Limousine. “Just stay there Gabs.” He commands her.
“Those people are just going to use her for everything they can, get everything they can out of her and then move onto the next person. That’s how they operate. That's how they are. That's how little people like her can mean to these people.”
Arthur groans out in pure bliss.
Gabrielle can't say anything. As much as she could try it’d all be muffled and incoherent.
He grips her head firmly, both hands on the back of her head as he just holds her there. A sinful, deeply wet moan echoing off his balls as he groans out even louder. Then silence in the Hotel suite, except for some of the other people involved in today's shoot cheering Gabrielle on. He holds her there for a few moments and just enjoys towering over her. Finally Arthur releases his grip on her head and allows her to free herself of him.
She moans out sinfully, and then takes a desperate gasp of air once again, before swatting at a strand of saliva that had still connected her mouth to his appendage.
“That’s my hungry little Whore, swallow it all.” He bellows before patting her on the head, pulling his pants back up and then making his way over to the small group of people involved in performing in and filming the scene with the young starlet, leaving Gabrielle kneeling there naked and sticky in the back of the room. “See…that’s how you suck a dick.” He bellows proudly.
“Or worse yet, she might never be free of Eternal, she might never get to be her own woman. They might just keep her there forever. She could be trapped in this spot in her life forever. All the while foolishly thinking that her day will come, or that this is all she really needs.”
The Gentlemans Texan drawl is unmistakable, even in the noise he just made.
Gabrielle doesn’t say anything. She couldn’t possibly mutter a single intelligible word right now.
He grips her head aggressively, both hands still holding onto her pigtails as he just holds her there. A sloppy, yet excited moan sliding free of her stretched open mouth as he gets even louder. Then silence in this part of the Right Side of the Bed, except for the pair of random Club Patrons who had watched on, and now comment to each other how good that was. He holds her there for a short while, just enjoying the sounds she’s making. Finally The Gentleman releases his grip on her and allows her to remove him from herself.
She moans devilishly, before a slight whimper and then she gasps for air once again, before wiping at the mascara that had run down her cheeks.
“That’s my insatiable little Bimbo, swallow it all.” He states in that drawl of his. Gabrielle who is lying across the couch and his lap goes to get up, but he places his hand on the top of her head. She looks up at him and as he applies the slightest bit of pressure, she opens her mouth and buries her face back between his legs. “I took a special little blue pill for you, I’m not done yet.” He commands her.
“I think that's what Eternal wants from her. To take advantage of her forever, she’s good, she’s obedient, she’s loyal to their cause. She’ll be stuck there forever…”
...
...
...
Gabrielle is finally alone again for the first time in a few days. Between her FWA Promotional commitments and the people in her life she’s been in high demand and barely had a second free to just think about this weekend. To think about what is coming up. Those days back in Dallas seem like a lifetime ago.
She doesn’t even know where all the people who fill her days up have gone, just that she can finally relax and catch her breath. But she can't really relax, her mind is a whirlwind of thoughts that she needs to get out.
So she pulls her phone out, and starts to record herself, starts to record a video she’ll send through to Elizabeth Rose on whatever social media platform will handle this big of a video.
“Elizabeth, I don't know if you’ll want to watch this. Maybe you hate me too much now, which I deserve, or maybe you’ll see just enough of this, and of me being so down to make you want to see more.”
Gabrielle sighs, loudly. “I’m sorry Lizzie. I am. I’m sorry I mistreated you when I did, when all you wanted was a friend and a mentor. Things that you deserved but you didn’t get, not from me at least. Maybe Eternal gives you that now.”
Another sigh, there’s some deeper thought swirling around in her head that she needs to get out, but maybe can't. “I couldn’t be that for you Lizzie, I had to be something else, not your friend, and not the mentor you wanted, but maybe the mentor you needed. You needed my tough love Lizzie, even if you didn’t deserve to be treated so poorly.”
A loud sigh again, but then Gabrielle speaks suddenly with so much more surety to her voice. “You know what I’m doing tonight Elizabeth? After I’ve sent you this. I’ll be heading to The Right Side of the Bed for a big Back In Business pre-party where I’ll adorn myself with glitter, get dressed into something really revealing and frankly slutty. Probably a school girl outfit because The Gentleman so loves me looking younger.”
“Then I’ll get up on stage and dance…and work the pole…and strip out of my clothes. I’ll let men I’ve never met before stuff dollar bills into my g-string. I’ll probably give out a few lapdances. And the night will end with me in my Office, bent over my desk with my Championships all around me, and a sixty year old Texan fucking me.”
“I say this because Lizzie you reminded me so much of myself, and you still do. When you were younger you were such a dreamer, you aimed for the Stars and you wanted everything you desired and were willing to do whatever it took to get there. That was me Lizzie , when I was eighteen years old. Nothing was going to stop me, but so many things and so many people tried to stop me.”
“But I couldn’t let them, so I did everything I could to advance my career, to silence the doubters, whatever it took. People opened their gyms up to me when I opened my legs up to them.”
Silence, and it lasts a good long while.
“I’m an FWA Hall of Famer, and a former World Champion Lizzie, but to so many people now I’m just a Pornstar, just a Stripper, just a…Slut.” She grits her teeth. “I had to embrace that word long ago for my own sanity. I…I earned being called a…Slut…and I can't hide from that now, or ever.”
“I’m not even embarrassed to say all of this, but I know it's all beneath me. I know I shouldn’t be working as a Stripper. I know I shouldn’t have ventured into the World of Porn and let the whole World see me like that. But I did, and I am. When you reminded me of myself Lizzie I saw a similar path ahead for you. Not this exact path, you wouldn’t do what I have done, but I knew you’d be willing to degrade yourself to get ahead, whatever that means for you.”
“You were so keen to fetch my dry cleaning or my coffee…”
“To be accepted you were willing to do whatever it took, just like I was. Maybe you would have outgrown that, or maybe not. Maybe like I have you’d find yourself still doing all those things for approval and acceptance, or even just validation.”
“I’m not stupid, I had to pretend to be a Bimbo sometimes, but I know, and I know everyone else does. Everything I said about you recently, about you doing whatever the people around you told you…that's what I’m doing. These men I sleep with, they get whatever they want from me whenever they want. I’m what I have been criticising you for…and there’s no one coming to save me.”
“Lizzie…I hurt you to try and save you, now I have to hurt you again to save you. I’m sorry.”
Gabrielle manages a faint smile and then ends the recording. But where will this story end? Will Lizzie Rose find salvation or further damnation. Will Gabrielle’s conscience be eased or will she lose even more of the identity she once held?
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Post by The Golden One on Jul 29, 2024 5:15:43 GMT
Mother’s Day
Mother’s Day 2024 was May 12. XYZ didn’t celebrate it. At the time, he didn’t have a mom. Didn’t know his mom. She hadn’t returned to his life yet. He was still hoping – wishing – she’d emerge from the shadows of the world. It had been 28 years since X saw his mom. He had no idea if the effort to find her – Sierra’s calls on social media, in particular – would work.
They did work … but not in time for Mother’s Day. Not that it really matters in the grand scheme of things. X’z mom arrived in Paris and walked up to him and the rest of The Menage a week and a half after Mother’s Day to re-introduce herself to her long-lost son.
After her return, though, X’s mom wanted to celebrate Mother’s Day this year with her son. She came back in late May, and those first couple of weeks were tentative. Once she and her son found some form of daily communication and comfort, X’s mom proposed quite an unorthodox idea: celebrate Mother’s Day anyway … just a little bit later than the actual date.
She had been asking all June to set up a mother-son date: breakfast, lunch, dinner, whatever. Maybe a movie together. “Just us,” she kept saying. “I want to spend quality time with you.”
And through most of these requests, X didn’t feel comfortable enough to celebrate with his mom. He felt uneasy initially about her return. At first, he was skeptical about her intentions.
“Why did it take you so long?” “Where have you been?” “Why now?”
These are just a few of the questions he has asked her over the past couple of weeks. XYZ’s mom always had an answer – a good one, too. “I was nervous.” “I have been traveling and getting my life back together.” “I feel like you need your mom more than ever.”
Eventually, those answers dissipated X’s concerns. Not some of the other members of The Menage, though. Sierra remained suspicious. Christian Howard was cautious. Frank had yet to give an opinion.
Even though he settled his own concerns, XYZ still had difficulties feeling comfortable enough to celebrate Mother’s Day. The main reason? This person literally abandoned him on the side of the road when he was just a child. His mom was supposed to protect him, and she left him to fend for himself. This is all well-documented, and X has told all of The Menage members about this childhood trauma many times over.
A depressing thought that came to X’s mind on May 12: he hadn’t celebrated a Mother’s Day in 28 years. XYZ was just 9 years old when his mother left him on the side of a dark road at night in Sitka, Alaska.
Those memories, though – from those few Mother’s Days that X remembers – are some of the fondest and strongest memories from his childhood. And with X’s mom asking – begging – to make a new memory, these past ones come flooding back.
August 3, 2024
The Magic School Bus slows to a lazy 5 mph coast in the parking lot of Madison Square Garden, which is the venue for Back in Business XVIII. Once the newly fixed bus comes to a stop, the door opens and XYZ quickly exits first. He looks around and smiles.
“Business of the Back weekend. Eighteenth edition. Ex-vee-eye-eye-eye. Nothing like it!” he says. "There's just ... a smell in the air."
“Wait … X,” Sierra shouts from inside the bus before emerging behind him into the enclosed parking lot.
“Do you think Back in Business is this weekend? Is that why we are here today?!”
“Yes. This is where the Business of the Back is happening, is it not?”
“No … I mean … yes … yes it is. But not today. It’s next weekend.”
XYZ looks dumbfounded at Sierra, who is now joined by her daughter Lizzy, Christian Howard, Frank, PacMan Bert, and XYZ’s mom. The Menage is in full force – aside, of course, for Wild Jerry, who has been missing for months since he fiercely told XYZ in Mexico City to leave him alone.
“So you’re telling me …”
“I’m telling you we’re a week early.”
XYZ, who is wearing his wrestling gear, was thinking all day that he was to wrestle Kleio de Santos for the FWA Television Championship in the fifth match of the night. He has the trademark green cloth tied around his neck serving as a superhero cape, the sparkly silver and gold pants down to his ankles, and his spaghetti-string hair dangling over his face in front of his eyes.
“Well … I guess we should set up camp.”
“So just … stay here?”
“Might as well. We’re a week early. No point in going anywhere else.”
“We have gone to other galaxies and back in four days!” Frank attests.
“Yes, but it’s Business of the Back, Frank.”
Frank heads into the Magic School Bus shaking his head. Lizzy does the same. PacMan Bert follows with his head down playing the PacMan video game in his hands. Sierra follows suit.
“Honey, I think it’s great that we’re here. We can see the sights of New York City! I don’t know if you’ve been here but I haven’t before!” says X's mom.
“Well, don’t go far. We only have a week before the show.”
“You got it, honey.”
X’s mom pinches X’s cheeks before returning to the bus. As she walks by Sierra, who has been antagonistic toward her for a couple of weeks, X’s mom gives Sierra a side-eyeing glare.
“I’m going to use the bathroom,” Sierra announces, before looking at Christian and giving a head nod in X's direction. “Hopefully they let me in.”
This leaves just XYZ and Christian Howard standing outside the bus. No security guards or anyone else is near them.
“Hey, X. I wanted to talk with you actually. About your mom.”
“Okay. You have all of my ears.”
“Listen … I am … well … I kind of side with Sierra a bit on this. I don’t know if her motivations are the best and I worry that she’s using you for fame. I know you have to choose someone to be in your corner for Back in Business. Maybe it shouldn’t be her?”
“Why not? What would she do? Even if you’re correct, Christian of the Howard Clan, and she just wanted fame and limelight, wouldn’t she want to help me win?”
“Well … I … sure? I just don't think ... look ... I think something is off here, and Sierra agrees, and ...”
“I'm going to stop you and say that appreciate your concerns, Christian, but I fear this from you and Sierra comes more as not liking an outsider coming into The Menage. She is a new XYZite, and I worry that the old XYZites are not being welcoming. That’s NOT who we are. We welcome anyone – regardless of their baggage or their mistakes – to fight with us for the good of the world. We welcome anyone of any race, creed, religion, gender, or number of legs … to fight for this wondrous wonderment.”
“But … should she be in your corner? Wouldn’t it be better to have Sierra, who is fiercely loyal to you? Or me? Or Frank?”
“And my mom is not loyal to me?”
“Well … she did abandon you twenty-ei…”
XYZ puts his hand up – quite the audacious gesture from someone who is usually so happy and welcoming – to stop Christian mid-sentence.
“I appreciate your concerns, Christian of the Howard Clan, but I want to hear nothing more.”
Christian nods his head and walks away from X and toward the bus. He stops right before taking the first step up and then sighs. XYZ watches him the whole time.
August 6, 2024
Back in Business is still four days away, yet the Magic School Bus has not left its spot in the parking lot of Madison Square Garden since three days ago on Saturday. The Menage members have spent their time ordering food from Uber Eats – they have an unexplainable endless amount of money somehow and XYZ demands that everyone generously tip the delivery drivers – and play card games inside the bus.
On this specific afternoon in the week leading up to XYZ’s clash with Kleio de Santos, the card game is Rummy. If anyone has ever played the card game Rummy, then they understand the rules. You begin with a set number of cards – usually between five and seven – and try to get rid of them while gaining “points” by making three-or-more-cards matches of same-suited cards in sequential order or same-numbered cards.
A look around the game shows an even split among three of the four players – Frank, Lizzy Golden, and Sierra with just two or three cards left in their hand and multiple sets already played for their points. However, the fourth player is far behind.
XYZ holds approximately 25 cards in his hand as he looks around the group with a smile.
“Frank … do you have any sevens?”
“What?”
“Do you have any sevens?”
“No. I … why would I tell you?”
“That’s the game, right? If you don’t, then I have to Go Fish.”
XYZ reaches his right hand out into the middle pile of cards before Sierra grabs him by the wrist to stop.
“X … do you think we’re playing Go Fish?”
“What other game would we be playing?”
“WHY’D YOU HAVE TO TELL HIM, MOM?!” Lizzy Golden shouts emphatically. “I was hoping he’d continue collecting cards!”
“You knew he was playing the wrong game?!” Sierra exclaims, scolding her daughter. "Lizzy, why are you such a shit?! Jesus."
“Hey … X … let’s take a break. Can we go to the front of the bus and talk?”
Frank usually is not one to ask X to talk one on one, so X immediately nods his head and puts his cards down. Then he looks at Lizzy and points to her.
“No cheating, Liz. I know exactly how many cards I had.”
Lizzy winks at X, who walks to the front of the bus – passing PacMan Bert along the way. X’s mom was in the back near the card game, watching and listening to the conversation. Now she is intently watching X and Frank head to the front.
Frank sits in the second row of seats on the driver seat side. X sits in the row across the aisle from him.
“Frank … how can I mend your troubled mind today?”
“Well … X … I’m just a little worried.”
“About?”
“About Kleio. And … you. Your focus. It seems so divided between your mom being back and this match … this war … with Kleio. This is a big opportunity for you, X. Like … the FWA Television Championship is a big deal. And I want this for you. I think you deserve it. We’ve seen you go up and down so so so much here.
But … your mom. She’s kind of a distraction, and I think she’s not the best choice to have at ringside for the match. I think you’re going to be worried about her being out there, and you won’t be fully focused on Kleio. You need to be fully focused on Kleio. She said that she wants to kill your spi…”
“I know what she said, Frank. My spirit can’t be killed. How can she kill my spirit? By defeating me at Back in Business? By beating me in a title match? I’ve lost title matches before. I’ve lost title matches at Back in Business! That has not killed my spirit. Not even close. I am not breakable. I will never stop. I have you all … and now I have my mom. That’s all I need.”
“But what if Kleio is planning something really wicked and dastardly at Back in Business? What if it’s more than just beating you?”
“Like what?”
“What if she hurts your mom while your mom is at ringside for the match?”
This perspective is something XYZ hasn’t thought of yet. What if Kleio is going to hurt his mom? What if his mom becomes a distraction for him? Would his mom be safer in the back?
“Frank … you are a good friend … and also a smart Ite of the XYZs. I will think on this.”
Frank nods and smiles. He rises from the seat and heads to the back of the bus. When he gets there, he looks at Sierra and lightly nods twice – a sort of signal to anyone with two eyes and half a brain who is paying attention to him.
And XYZ’s mom is paying keen attention to him.
August 8, 2024
There are still two days left before Night 1 of Back in Business XVIII. XYZ is still at least 48 hours from arguably the biggest match of his wrestling career.
Yet, he is nowhere to be found. The Menage cannot find him in the Magic School Bus. They’re not worried – X sometimes does this type of thing – but it’s still perplexing.
Lizzy and Sierra sit in the back row of the bus. Frank is across the aisle along with Christian Howard. X’s mom, who is pretty much outcast at this point, is four rows up.
Sitting in the front of the bus is PacMan Bert, who is pressing away on the buttons of his handheld PacMan video game.
However, his attention is taken from his 24-hour addiction.
“Pssst.”
PacMan looks up and around the bus. He swears he heard a whisper from somewhere. He looks to the back and sees everyone in silence, some dozing off. After finding nothing, he goes back to his game.
“Pssst. Down here.”
PacMan Bert then looks down to the floor of the bus where XYZ is laying face-up underneath the seat divider. He has his head poking out looking up to the row where PacMan is sitting, and the rest of his body is stretched out to the row in front.
“Don’t look down. Look up,” X whispers.
PacMan Bert looks up to the ceiling.
“No … look … look straight ahead. Or out the window.”
PacMan looks out the window.
“Nevermind. Look down again. I want to talk to you in secrecy … away from everyone,” X whispers.
PacMan Bert says nothing, continuing to look at his strange leader acting strange yet again.
“Do you think my mom should be in my corner for the Television Championship match against Kleio de Santos?” X whispers. “Everyone else seems to think otherwise. I value your opinion. A man of few words is a man of valuable words.”
PacMan Bert says nothing. No head shake or nod.
“Some think she is not of the right mind for helping me. Others think she could be in position to get hurt by Kleio.”
X’s voice remains a whisper. PacMan remains mute.
“I feel like they could be correct, but I also have dreams of my mom watching me succeed in life … ever since I was a child. What better feeling than to have her watch me win my first championship?”
PacMan remains silent.
“Do you think she will get hurt?”
Nothing.
“I want to trust my XYZites, but I also want to trust my heart. What would you trust?”
Silence.
“I think I know what you would trust. You would want your video game thingy with you at ringside if you had a chance to win a championship, wouldn’t you? Even if your opponent would try to stomp on and break it.”
PacMan finally shows some sort of opinion – shaking his head “no” to that scenario.
“Gotcha. Well … video games can’t fight back, PacMan. My mom could. Or she could run.”
Nothing from PacMan.
“Thanks for your opinion. I’m going to slide back on the floor down to the front row and pop out pretending like I’ve been here all along.”
XYZ begins sliding along the floor as PacMan watches him slide below the bus row dividers out of sight. Predictably, PacMan returns to focusing his full attention on the video game.
August 9, 2024
XYZ sits alone in the Magic School Bus with no one except his mom. He asked for this chance to speak with her. He requested everyone else leave – go wherever they wish in New York City or beyond as long as they return for sleep – except for his mom.
XYZ sits in the front row of the bus opposite the driver’s side. His mom sits in the row across from him.
“Mom … I’ve had a lot of people express … concerns about you being in my corner for the match. And what I don’t want is … you to get hurt. Or to distract me.”
“Oh, sweetie. I promise I will be out of the way. You know I only want to support and cheer you on.”
“I know. But mom … this … could be dangerous. Kleio de Santos is dangerous.”
“Honey … I’ve seen danger … and I can handle whatever her danger is. I’ve been to the ends of the earth and back. I’ve been in the lowest of lows. She’s nothing, honey. Nothing.”
“But what if …”
“What if, nothing, X. I’m your mom, and it’s about time your mom was in your corner. It has been twenty-eight years of me being absent … and you having to figure out everything on your own. Can you please let me be there for you … on your biggest night?”
“Mom … I … you don’t know how much I want that.
Yeah, it has been twenty-eight years. And yeah, I want you to help me and be my mom. I just … don’t want to lose you … this … again.”
“You don’t have to, sweetie. Will I really be a distraction? Do you really not trust me? Has that woman Sierra gotten into your ear about me? I don’t think she likes me. Honestly, I don’t think any of them like me a whole lot. You should’ve heard what she said to me at the mechanic shop in Mexico City.”
“Who? Sierra?”
“Yes! She does not like me, X. I don’t know why, but she does not like me at all. And I would not trust what she says.”
"I think she is looking out for me."
"X ... if you want my opinion ... I think they want you to need them. That's what I think. And you don't need them. None of them."
“Well … what if you got hurt out there?”
“I’ll be fine, sweetie. Listen … you have 24 hours left to think about this. How about you sleep on it, and we’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll give you some space. I think you need it right now.”
XYZ nods his head as his mom rises from the seat and gives him a kiss on the top of his head, through his spaghetti-string hair. She walks down the steps and is about to leave when XYZ looks up and says, “Wait.”
X’s mom stops and turns. Her loving and caring face gives X a whole world of comfort.
“Mom … thank you for coming back and being with me.”
X’s mom smiles.
“You’re welcome, X, but I need you to fully welcome me back and let me be with you … to make this as beautiful of a story as it could be. No one else is your mom. Your blood. Your family.
Let me be that for you tomorrow.
Let tomorrow be our Mother’s Day. There’d be no better present for me … than being out near that ring watching you win the FWA Television Championship. No better Mother’s Day.”
XYZ takes a breath, lightly nods his head, and then says, “Okay.”
"Can you say something else for me?"
"What is it?"
"Can you say that line you always say?"
"The dream never dies?"
"I like that line. It's a nice thought. My dream ... of us being together again ... for twenty-eight years ...
It never died, honey. Never."
X’s mom puts her arm out and touches his wrist gently before departing the bus. Just then, X closes both of his eyes and has two tears spearheaded by conflicting emotions slide down his cheek.
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Post by mandalorian on Jul 29, 2024 6:28:58 GMT
TRASH MAMMAL,
HALLOWEEN KNIGHT
AND
JUAN TOTHREFOR
ARE
YOUR CURRENT, REIGNING, DEFENDING AND UNDEFEATED FWA WORLD TRIOS CHAMPIONS
TR1CK OR TR4SH
IN
“THE REAL LUCHA EXPERIENCE”
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Post by blaine on Jul 29, 2024 6:47:22 GMT
SAWYER XAVIER IN: ETHEREAL DESIRES
“Words cannot describe how happy I am for you Sawyer. You’re on the big stage, isn’t this what you always wanted?”
The clinking of dishes and utensils could be heard, as Sawyer Xavier is sitting by a lady in her 40s. To his right is a younger kid, who looks to be around eight.
“All the other kids are going to be so jealous! I have a big brother who’s fighting at Back in Business!”
“Goes to show har’ work pays off, doen’t it boy? Not the righ’ path but at leas’ you ain’t a bum.”
The last sentence was spoken by a man across from him, big and burly. His face is stained with a bushy beard, hiding his mouth, as he saws into a steak.
“Get some meat in ya’, ya’ look like a twig!”
“Don’t say that hun. He’s a growing boy, so what if he’s a little scrawny? He’ll always be my little Sawyer.”
The woman would extend her hand over to Sawyer’s face, grasping at his cheek, pinching it slightly as Sawyer smiled a bit.
“Thanks, dad. But, I’m not too hungry.”
“The hell you mean you ain’ hungry? Your mother spent a damn long time preparing dinner, so you-”
Sawyer’s mom placed her hand on the arm of his dad, calming him down as he shook his head in frustration. Sawyer rolled his eyes, poking his fork down at his steak.
“Who knows, if I eat too much, I might be out of shape.”
“Trust me, I’ve known you for sixteen years honey, I don’t think that’s an issue. Now, eat, I don’t want to throw a whole meal to the strays.”
Sawyer cut into the steak, taking a bite out of it. The taste was indescribable, the flavor was unmeasurable. It was like chewing air, but yet it was encapsulating. The ultimate nothingness of it somehow felt more comforting than anything else.
“I’m ju’ sayin’, you need some more muscle. Who cares if you can do those flips and shit, you need to be able show off your strength.”
Sawyer didn’t really have a response to that, moving his head down as the family continued eating. Sawyer stabbed into the steak, watching as it cleanly cut. He pierced it with a fork, before taking another bite filled with imponderable flavor.
“Thanks, ma, this is really …”
“Really what?”
No matter how hard Sawyer thought, nothing was coming to his mind. Time seemed to slow down, as the room began to darken, as the haunting sounds of a raven caw rang out across the dining room. Sawyer’s eyes widened, as they darted around the room, darkness overtaking the environment … until it disappeared.
It was as if nothing had happened, as his family continued eating as normal. Yet, Sawyer’s eyes could not stop darting around the room. His eyes hit a family portrait on the wall, but yet he couldn’t make out the faces. They looked like his parents, but in some twisted way, didn’t.
He shook his head, as he stared at his mom, who was still awaiting a response, her beady black eyes piercing his soul.
“Good, it’s really good.”
His mom smiled, as the four continued to eat at the table. Every bite of food left Sawyer feeling more and more … what did he feel? Was he full or empty? The faint sense of taste was there, but he couldn’t comprehend what it tasted like.
“So, Sawyer, that crazy chick seems in’o you. I gotta say, I’ve had my fair share of crazy chicks in my heyday. Your mother was one too.”
“Jackson, that is not appropriate at the dinner table.”
“It’s true though. Listen, all it takes is a hard-working Christian man to tame those beasts. They make good wives.”
“I … appreciate the sentiment but. I’m not interested in anyone right now.”
“You should be. I mean, yer sixteen and you ain’ have a girlfriend yet? Yer too busy causing chaos with Hank. That kid’s a bad influence.”
“No the hell he’s not! I’ve known him since I was five, he’s the best thing in my life!”
Those words shouted out of Sawyer’s throat, as he pushed himself out of his chair, rising to his feet. His dad got up as well, as the two stared each other down. Sawyer’s mom would stand up, pushing her hands in between their faces.
“You two stop it! That’s no way to be acting at the dinner table!”
“Then tell your gah damn son to not be a pathetic sonuvabitch. You put the har’ work in but be honest with yourself son. You’re only there because of some crazy bitches.”
“I don’t appreciate you talking about anyone like that.”
“I don’t give a shit. I’ve earned the right to talk like dat.”
Sawyer gripped his fist, readying himself to reel it back. He stared at his dad with a fiery rage. For years, he’s held this rage inside of him, and it seemed the chains tying him back were finally rusted. And as he finally sent his fist forward, those chains snapped. Aimed directly at his head, Sawyer sent his fist into the skull of his dad with full force.
But in the moment of contact, the room went dark. He stumbled forward with the momentum, with everything disappearing. His family was gone, the dining table was gone, all that remained was that one picture on the wall, even more distorted than before.
Then, the raven’s caw echoed again. Shivers were sent up his spine, as he turned around, seeing a figure that looked like his father. Instead, he towered over Sawyer, as he was forced to look up to his dad. The look on his face remained that same condescending, deadpan look that he’s had for years.
“You finally grew a pair, but it’s too late. I see that look in your eyes, boy. You want to fuss at me every time I tell you the truth.”
Sawyer felt himself start to shrink, his body getting smaller as he felt his vision being blocked by a helmet. He took it off, revealing a Middle School football helmet.
“What the hell is going on.”
“Remember in the eighth grade, when you came home cryin’ from practice? You were so sad because you couldn’ make friends with any of your teammates. That was the moment I knew you were an embarrassment.”
“I expected so much out of you, Sawyer. Instead of someone I can be proud of, you’re just an underweight hippie who doesn’t even have a damn house.”
“What the fuck do you know, huh? For years, I’ve tried my best to live up to your expectations! You always wanted me to do shit I didn’t want to do! Soccer in elementary, football in middle school. You wanted me to do the shit you couldn’t succeed in! Well guess what, I’ve found my passion finally and you still won’t accept me!”
“You’d never know that, Sawyer. You’ve never gave us a call or a visit!”
He’s right. Sawyer left and never looked back. Did he regret it though? The idea of what would’ve happened ate at his mind every day.
“I didn’t need to talk to you. You never supported me, you only wanted me to do whatever you wanted to do. You didn’t care until it made you happy.”
“But init’ that what you as a child should do? Do you know how har’broken your mother was when you left? Frankly, I cou’ give less of a damn.”
Sawyer felt himself getting smaller and smaller. Once again, the caw of a raven sounded. It overtook his ears, echoing inside of his head as the cognition of his dad towered over him.
“You’re an embarrassment to everyone. You’ve spent your entire life chasing a goal that you’ll never hit. Think of all you’ve sacrificed along the way. You’re poor, you live out of a van and cheap motels, and you’re stuck losing. You just keep on losing, because somehow, I raised a loser. It makes me sick. Think of all the times you could’ve grasped success, but you threw it away. Nights out at the bar, mental breakdown episodes. You have everything thousands of others want, but you can’t do a damn thing to capitalize on it.”
He was … right. He had thrown away so many opportunities. For what? Why did he give up every chance he had? Why did he throw away every little moment he had? Sawyer’s eyes began to tear up, as he dipped his head down. His dad was right. He’s nothing but an embarrassment.
He nearly fell to his knees, but the echoing caws got louder and louder. They were almost, inciting him on. The caws began to surrounding brain, before seeing a raven fly in front of him. It couldn’t understand what it meant, but something about it was telling him to push onwards. To not give up, to keep on moving.
Sawyer pushed himself back to his feet, as he felt his father getting smaller … and himself getting bigger.
“Yeah, I’m an embarrassment. Sure, I’ve thrown shit away. I’ve failed so many times, but that’s what I love about myself. I’m a failure who doesn’t know when to quit. When the world wants me to give up, when you want me to give up, I refuse. Because if I let the naysayers win, then they can do whatever they want.”
“I may not be anyone’s favorite, but one day, I hope my persistence and my will to not quit will make someone else not quit. They might not know me or even thank me, but if I quit, even after making it so far, that makes me worse than a failure. Thanks, dad, thank you for helping me realize. I’m a loser, damn it. But I know myself better than you. I don’t need to live up to anyone’s expectations, because as long as I meet mine, that’s a hell of a lot more powerful than anything else.”
“I’m the hero and the villain of my own story. The only person that’s going to slay me is myself, but my heart is still fighting. It will keep fighting, until I can’t fight anymore.”
Finally, Sawyer and his dad were face to face. The fiery rage in Sawyer’s eyes pierced through his dad, as he smiled. It was a sinister one, as their eyes met. One was filled with passion, endurance, and hope, the other filled with the condescending stares of everyone who’s ever viewed him as lesser. Those glares battled … until his father's eyes began to dull.
BOOM
His father’s face began to melt, as Sawyer backed up. His dad continued to smile, as he faded from existence. Sawyer felt his heart beating faster and faster, as he looked around the empty environment.
BOOM
The area around him began to shake, as a figure seemed to materialize in front of him. It was someone shadowy, someone that looked exactly like him … but didn’t at the same time. He wanted to speak but felt his voice empty. The shadowy figure smirked, before placing its hand on Sawyer’s shoulder.
“I’ve been waiting a long time for you to finally come to terms with yourself. Frankly, watching you constantly fall right when you nearly reach the next stage was getting boring. Back in Business is your moment, Sawyer. It’s our moment. Win or lose, that’s your stage to make your name known. I don’t know why Keres likes us, but it sure feels nice to have someone have high hopes for us. Prove her right.”
“Because if she likes you, you can make more people like us. Unless, of course, it’s not about people liking us. Maybe it’s a challenge, maybe she fancies our failures, our pathetic nature. So, let’s break that pre-destined notion. Let’s change our status from loser to winner. Because, Sawyer Xavier, we are a star to something.”
BOOM
Sawyer stared at the shadowy figure, who gave Sawyer a smile as it began to fade from existence.
“Be that star to the world.”
Sawyer will be that star, whether he likes it or not. Back in Business is his moment, his chance to prevail. He will continue to fight until he burns out, rather than fading away.
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
The world Sawyer had seemed trapped in began to crumble as light began to fill the area … then.
.
. . . . . . . .
His eyes flickered open, as he stared at a steering wheel. He felt his forehead throbbing, as groaned slightly. He twisted his neck to the passenger seat, feeling a crack again. It was just … a dream. But, it was more than a dream. It was a revelation. It was a moment in time, a moment that he needed more than anything else. He needed to hear from himself that he was a star. Sawyer smiled, as he twisted his neck the other way …
But jumped in his seat as he saw a face staring at him through his window. His heart rate shot up, as his eyes fixiated on the face … as his own moved to a smile. It was Hank. He quickly opened the door, shooting out of his seat as he wrapped his arms around Hank.
“Sawyer … you good man?”
“Yeah … yeah. Sorry … for showing up like this.”
“It’s fine, just give me a warning next time.”
Sawyer broke the hug up, as he scratched the back of his head.
“You sure your good? You look rough as fuck man. Come inside, I’ll get you something to eat.”
He nodded, following Hank to the door. For the first time in years, Sawyer had finally bought the courage to go back to his best friends. Wasted time worrying about the worst case scenario, eventually he needed the answer himself. No matter what the outcome was, Sawyer needed closure, and he’d find that closure.
He’ll prove his past self wrong. He will right his wrongs, he will rise to the occasion. The story of Sawyer Xavier isn’t over, it’s just getting started. |
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Post by Wolfie on Jul 29, 2024 7:00:15 GMT
The charred, crumpled carcass of the Friendship Wrestling Academy sat, the embers of the ruined architecture softly cackling in the night. A trail of thick, acridic smoke billowed into the sky, a signal seen by all, a herald of what was to come, to the owner of the disgraced would-be school.
Upon the hood of a nearby cherry red Cadillac, one that had clearly seen better days, a man quietly sat, watching the ruins with a steady grace. His piercing green eyes roamed over the broken building, as is expecting someone, something, to rip itself from the blackened structure, dragging itself from the remains with a harrowing screech. It would be fitting, after all. Nothing worth killing ever dies quick enough.
But the burned husk remained still. As he watched, he grew vaguely aware of a voice addressing him. Blinking, Krash tore his eyes away from the demolition and arson combination before him, glancing at the woman beside him. Violet Dreyer slipped her phone back into her pocket, having done her job as the camerawoman better than anticipated, her eyes squinted in something akin to concern.
“You good?” She asked, raising an eyebrow.
Krash’s gaze flickered back to the ruins of the Academy, biting the inside of his cheek, before he nodded once. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” He replied, his voice a touch flat.
Violet followed his gaze to the ruins, unable to hide her anarchistic prideful glee at the violent riot she helped create. “I really need to burn down buildings more often. Arson is a hell of a pick-me-up.”
Krash merely hummed in response, content to continue watching the dilapidated Academy in silence.
“Are we done here?”
“We’re finished here. But done? Not quite. I’ll need you for one more thing, Violet.”
-=-=-=-
“Are you… Are you sure about this?” Violet asked, shutting the door behind her, as the two entered Krash’s hotel room. Gone was the confidence and pride in her voice, replaced by uncharacteristic hesitation.
“No.” Krash admitted, running a palm over his eyes as he sat himself down on his couch. His gaze flickered towards the snowglobe, sitting on the coffee table. “Fuck no, I’m not. But… I want to destroy everything that prick has, everything he cares about. Part one was his school. Part three is himself, his merry band of fuckwits, and his title reign. Part two, however, is…” Krash’s gaze flickered to his TV screen, currently inert. “Complicated.”
Violet followed his gaze to the TV, as Krash switched it on. The last few scenes of Toy Story, paused just before the end credits, faded onto the screen. “This seems risky.” Violet mumbled, forcing a nervous swallow. “You know wh-”
“Of course I know what happened last time.” Krash snapped, shooting Violet a glare. “How could I not? I’ve only been living with this for the past year.” His voice softened with a grimace, as he glanced at his wrist, at the familiar mark on it. “Like a wreck…”
A tense silence ensured, as Krash exhaled, staring at the floor. “I know he’s… Just him. A regular guy, made of flesh and blood, with a heartbeat. Just like you.” There was a fraction of silence, where Violet expected Krash to add ‘just like me’ to that.
He did not.
“I know he’s supposed to be normal.” Krash continued, regardless. “But whenever I see his face, hear his voice, or get reminded of anything like him, I… Lose myself. I disconnect. I relapse. And he turns into a monster in my mind.”
“You did pretty well in the video earlier…”
“I barely acknowledged him, and it took everything in my power to even say his name without… Disconnecting. I couldn’t even sign a contract, face-to-face with him. I’m not going to have that crutch at Back In Business. If I want to truly rip apart everything about him, then I need to erase his power over me. Part one, his school. Part three, him. But I can’t get to part three without part two, and I can’t get to him without getting rid of what my mind has convinced me he is.”
“Part three is the real him…" Violet noted, pulling it all together. "And Part two is your… PTSD version of him.. The hold he has over you.”
“More or less, yeah.”
Violet hesitated, then stepped forward. “What do you need me to do?”
“Just watch over me. Keep an eye on things. If it seems like I’m… About to do something drastic, then do something about it.”
“How? Like what?”
Krash sighed. “I trust you, Violet. You’ll figure it out.”
And with that, Krash reached towards the remote, and pressed play.
‘You’ve got a friend in me…’
He shuddered, fingers gripping into the couch, as he forced his eyes to remain open. His breathing grew sharp, harrowed, rapid, and if he was capable of feeling his heartbeat, then he was sure it was thundering inside of him hard enough to tear his ribcage apart. And, just like last time, the world around him began to crumble, shift, warp. He felt, rather than saw, a metal band snake it’s way across his wrist, stapling him to the couch. The concerned figure of Violet, anxiously watching from both too close and far away, lost all meaning - first being reduced to mere shapes without a connection. Then, those shapes slipped, blending into one, rippling out of existence. The room seemed to melt, walls glitching and cascading, soon being replaced with a horrendously uncomfortable pale yellow wallpaper, one that seemed to flex, in and out, breathing.
Krash was no longer in his home.
Instead, he was back there.
In his clutches.
His hands shook uncontrollably. His feet tapped the floor restlessly. He broke out in a cold sweat, hyperventilating. His neck snapped, his head recoiling, as he felt the grasp of another touch his arm.
“Welcome back, buddy!” The voice of Jeremy Best greeted him.
-=-=-=-=-
Grimacing in concern, Violet paced back and forth, as Krash mumbled and whimpered on the couch, lost in his own trauma. She took one step towards him, then another back, then another towards him, hesitant.
He trusted her, even if he couldn’t trust himself.
The gesture was, admittedly, rather warming, yet as Violet crossed her arms, watching Krash twitch in fear, it felt cold.
With a pale hand, she pulled out her phone, glancing at Krash once more, before dialing, pressing it to her ear as she dragged her gaze away from her friend. It rung once, twice, before being picked up.
“Hey?”
“Yeah, hey, look, no time to chat.” She glanced over her shoulder, biting a lip. “Are you nearby, by any chance? We’re at Krash’s. I… Might need your help.”
There was a brief conversation on the other side of the phone, before the voice returned. “We can be there in ten.”
-=-=-=-
Hitching a breath, Krash forced himself to turn his head towards the best.
Jeremy Best leered over him, that vacant, oblivious grin stretched across a barren landmark of skin that seems too small to contain the magnitude of the smile. His eyes were gleeful, pointed like daggers, with no iris - only a large, magnifying pupil in each. One of his spindly hands rested on Krash’s arm, connected to an elbow, then another elbow, another elbow, and another elbow, a multitude of spider-like joints before jutting into his torso as an afterthought. Jeremy’s body glistened, like an oil, black tar, leaving a dripping trail of… Something, on the floor, as he crouched on the couch, knees twisted behind him.
It was Jeremy Best, or, at least, what passed as Jeremy Best in Krash’s mind.
“I knew you’d be back, buddy!” Jeremy crooned, voice high-pitched and bubbly, his mouth moving a second before the words came out. His other arm slid around, the limb snapping as it curled around Krash’s neck several times, in a disgraced version of a hug. It felt cold against Krash’s skin, and left a residue behind it. “I knew you could get past that little hangup of yours, beat that ‘demon’ you got stuck with. Now we can be best friends, forever!” Jeremy screeched in joy, his mouth flashing open to display one solitary tooth, stretched to encompass the length of the mouth.
Shivering, Krash forced himself to keep eye contact with the monster in his mind, the demon in his dreams, the relapse of his reality. Even as his skin broke out in goosebumps, he remained in his ways, as Jeremy stood over the couch, towering above him, so tall that his neck pushed against the ceiling. His head simply snapped downward, constantly facing Krash as he waltzed towards the TV. “We have so much to catch up on, buddy! You just get comfortable, I’ll put something good on for us.”
His arm snaked towards the TV, flicking a dial. The TV exploded into life, releasing an ear-piercing shriek of static. Krash recoiled in whiplash, trying to bring his legs and arms together instinctively, to shield himself into a ball - but of course, with his limbs strapped down, he could only tremble.
-=-=-=-
At the knock on the door, Violet tore her eyes away from Krash’s mumbling, shivering body, quickly stepping over to wrench the door open. The black masked visage of Alyster Black greeted her with a nod, stepping within. And behind him, with a hint of trepidation, Chris Peacock followed, his gaze focusing on Krash in confusion.
“Didn’t know you were tagging along too.” Violet remarked with a raised eyebrow.
Chris opened his mouth to respond, but Alyster got there first, gesturing towards Krash. “Jesus fuck.” He remarked, taking in the scene. “Krash, you okay man?”
“He can’t hear you.” Violet muttered. “He’s… Not here right now.”
Alyster hissed. “Ah.”
Chris, meanwhile, strode forward, snapping his fingers in front of Krash’s face.
-=-=-=-=-
Jeremy Best’s neck snapped, as he twisted his body around. In an instant, he was no longer in front of the TV.
Instead, he was right in front of him, saliva dripping onto Krash’s lap, as his eyes burned into Krash’s soul. He didn’t even hear him move.
“Something wrong, buddy?”
-=-=-=-=-
“Something’s wrong with him.” Chris remarked, glancing at the others.
“Yeah, no shit, welcome to the party.”
“Alright, alright.” Alyster raised his palms, placating the two, before turning to Violet. “Vi, what’s the deal?”
Violet took a breath, as she corralled the FTN members together. “It was his idea.” She jerked her head towards Krash, frowning. “Dude can barely look at Jeremy without turning into a nervous wreck, so he wanted to… I don’t know. Put himself in front of the Jeremy of his mind and convince himself it’s not real. Or nothing worth fearing. Or something. I don’t fuckin’ know.”
“Like… Fuck, what’s the term.” Alyster mused.
“Exposure therapy?” Chris quietly suggested.
Alyster snapped his fingers. “Bingo.”
Violet shrugged. “I mean, I guess? Fucked if I know.”
“So why are we here, then…?”
“Because, the last few times he… Went under, the only way he could bring himself out was by hurting himself.” Violet’s gaze flickered to the kitchen drawer, where she had hidden all the knives. “This time, he’s going deeper. He wanted me to… Watch over him, and make sure he didn’t… Y’know. Do anything drastic.”
Alyster and Chris caught each other’s gaze. “Drastic?”
“I mean, he stabbed himself last time. Did he- Did he not tell you about that?”
“... No. Fuck.” Alyster growled, running a palm over the back of his mask, as he turned to Chris. “Chris, you good being here? You don’t have to-”
“No, I want to stay. I want to help.” Chris replied after a second of consideration. “I… I feel like I should. Felt like a right ass when I accidentally caused this whole thing to begin with just by saying Jeremy’s name to him, that night after CC.” There was a hint of guilt in Chris’s voice, a longing to make it up to him.
“If it wasn’t you, it would’ve been someone else.” Alyster noted, slapping Chris on the arm. “Don’t beat yourself up.”
Turning to his friend on the couch, Alyster sighed, taking a step forward. “Alright, Krash. You do what you gotta, and when you need us, we’ll pull you out.” He sat on the couch beside Krash, raising a hand, before second-guessing it, and placing it back within himself.
Chris nodded, stepping forward, his palms resting on the backside of the couch. “Yeah. You don’t have to go through this alone.”
FTN glanced at each other, then back at Violet, who rolled her eyes, but took a step forward. "You know he can’t hear you, right? But, fine. We’re your friends, Moustache Fuck. We got your back. Kick that bitch in the dirt.”
-=-=-=-
Jeremy sat down on the couch next to Krash, his body contorting into a twisted, mishappen shape, his face constantly directed at Krash.
“You seem distracted, friendo.” His echoing through the compact room.
Krash stared, shaking, as the arachnid limbs of Jeremy inches closer, teasingly, before retreating. “What’s on your mind?” Jeremy continued.
Krash’s lip quivered, his throat dry, as his mind and body screamed at him to do something, say something. Jeremy’s echoes continued, bouncing across the room, and it wasn’t until the third time that Krash vaguely realized that the echoes did not match Jeremy’s words.
He couldn’t quite make them out, but the tone at least, was… Warm, comforting.
It was something.
Latching on to the echoes, Krash took a breath. Jeremy leaned in, beaming, interested in what Krash would say next.
“... I hate you.” Krash squeaked out, his voice shaken and withdrawn.
The grin on Jeremy’s face faltered slightly. “You don’t mean that.” Jeremy replied, a shade of confidence in his tone.
Jeremy’s voice echoed again, and once more, the echo did not match Jeremy’s words, coming back as a soft encouragement.
Krash swallowed, pushing himself forward. “I do. I hate you. I hate you!” Krash continued, voice growing stronger.
Jeremy frowned, or at least he tried to. His face was still stuck in a smile, the corners of his mouth upturned despite the rest of his face visibly deflating. “No, you don’t.”
And for a third time, the echoes did not match Jeremy’s words.
“I DO! I HATE YOU!” Krash roared, hands shaking in his restraints. Jeremy recoiled, shrinking slightly, something that filled Krash with more resolve than ever before. “I dislike you, I abhor you, I loathe you - To say I despise you would be a severe understatement.” Krash leaned forward, his arm pulling at the restraint on the couch. “I. Hate. You.”
Jeremy shrunk, as Krash hissed at him. “Y- You don- No. No! I just want to be your fri-”
“I got my friends, and you don’t GET to be my friend. I don’t want to be your friend, I am NOT your friend, and I will NEVER be your friend. You have RUINED my life, don’t you get that? Can’t you get that through your thick fucking skull? You’ve taken everything that matters away from me, you’ve reduced me to a nervous wreck, you’ve turned me into a hollow shell of who I once was - Leave me the hell alone!”
“You don’t get it.” Jeremy quietly said, his spindly arms wrapping around himself. “I- I’m your number one fan. I looked up to you, I admired you, I-”
“I don’t care! I don’t know you, and I don’t WANT to know you! You’re not my friend, you’re an entitled parasite, a stalker with attachment issues! I’d rather dive into a bonfire than spend so much more than a second with your company!”
“W-Well… If t-that’s what you want, then... That c-can be arranged.” Jeremy said, an attempt at defiance, bravery, in his voice, but a shaken, insecure one.
Krash stared at him in silence. A feeling grew within him, one he wasn’t sure what to call, until he felt the bubbles of laughter rip it’s way out of his throat. He cackled with laughter, one devoid of humor. Yet, with every cackle, Jeremy shrunk. His face grew a little less oily, his smile a little less plastic. His arms lost their joints, reducing, as the monster cowered.
“Is that - Is that supposed to be a THREAT?!?” Krash exclaimed, howling. “That’s rich - You think a little fire is supposed to sway me? Are you fucked in the head more than I thought?” Krash leaned forward, his face inches from Jeremy’s, enough to see that unconfident smile continue to waver. “I sank to the bottom of a lake and drowned, because one ravenous fuck couldn’t let go. You think I’m supposed to be intimidated by a more pathetic piece of shit, trying the same thing with a different flavor? The fear within me is beyond anything your empty threats can make.”
Jeremy trembled, folding in on himself, tears streaking from his eyes. “I-”
“I drowned.” Krash hissed, face kissing against Jeremy’s. “I died. And I came back. You can’t kill me in any way that matters.”
-=-=-==-
When Krash began to bray with laughter, Alyster, Chris, and Violet all recoiled, stunned.
“Does he… Normally do that?” Chris remarked.
Violet shrugged.
“I think it’s time we hit the eject button on this.” Alyster declared, shifting himself forward. “Krash, dude? You good? Maybe wake the fuck up.” He reached out a hand, and placed it on Krash’s.
Krash’s arm jerked.
-=-=-=-=-
Krash’s arm jerked, and Krash broke his gaze away from Jeremy, finding to his surprise that the restraint on the couch was now broken. He raised his arm experimentally, testing the freedom, before grinning.
“O-okay. Y-you can go now.” Jeremy feebly requested, trying to wave him away. “See? Y-you’re not tied down. You can leave.”
“Oh, I’m going to. And I‘m not coming back.” Krash noted, distantly, before facing Jeremy again. “But if you want to threaten me, you should back it up.” His palms shot out, grasping Jeremy by the lapels. “After all, we have a date, don’t we?”
“Wh-”
“Better set up the bonfire. Burn with me, Jeremy. BURN WITH ME.”
-=-=-=-=-
Krash’s arm jerked up, gripping Alyster by the collar of his shirt.
“Hey, ease up. It’s just me.” Alyster began, glancing at the others.
Krash mumbled something beneath his breath.
“What’d he say?” Violet asked, taking a wary step back.
“BURN WITH ME.” Krash howled, roaring in Alyster’s face.
Too stunned to react, Alyster felt himself freeze under Krash’s vacant, hollow gaze. There was nothing behind those eyes, no trace of his ally. Only a roaring monster, angry, vengeful, at a world that had left him in the mud. “Krash-”
“BURN WITH ME, JEREMY.”
“It’s not Jeremy! It’s me, Alyster!” Alyster finally replied, trying to yank Krash’s grip off of his shirt. “You’re safe, you’re among friends, relax!”
Krash breathed, deeply, his lungs haggard. He stared at Alyster, without seeing anything. He was disconnected, to deep to tell the difference anymore. “Burn with me… Burn with me…” He quietly echoed, his hands curling into fists as they dragged Alyster closer, foreheads pressed together. “Burn-”
CRACK.
Krash slumped, his grip loosening, dead weight against Alyster’s chest. Chris stood above him, eyes wide, a slightly cracked snowglobe in his grip. “Fuck.” He whispered. “You alright?”
“Yeah… Yeah, I’m fine.” Alyster replied, glancing at Krash, hanging off of him. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Chris wavered, letting the snowglobe drop back onto the coffee table, taking a wary step forward. “I didn’t kill him, did I?”
“Knowing him, he’d just come back with a new haircut.” Violet remarked.
Krash mumbled, words slurring, as Alyster gently deposited him back on the couch.
“Do you think he… Did what we was hoping to do?” Chris asked, eyebrows furrowing. “Y’know. Confront the demon and all?”
Alyster leaned in, studying Krash’s face, noting the hint of a smile on his face. “I think so.”
“Guess we’ll find out when he wakes up, proper.”
“And when he does, we’ll be here for him. As his real friends.”
-=-=-=-=-=-
Once more, into the void.
His laughter echoing throughout the empty expanse, Krash strolled, footsteps echoing in the nothingness.
He felt free.
For the first time in what felt like years, he felt free.
The sensation was overwhelming.
As he sauntered across his domain, he spied a pale, shrunken figure, curled in a ball, twitching. Without wasting any further time, he strolled on over, standing before the form of Jeremy Best.
No longer a monster. No longer a fiend. No longer a demon.
Just a man.
Standing above him, Krash snapped his fingers. Around them, the darkness lit up with a flickering orange light, creeping in closer with every second.
“You’re not a monster.” Krash noted, kneeling before Jeremy. “Well, let me rephrase. You’re a horrible, terrible being. But you’re not a monster. You’re flesh and blood, skin and bone, like me.”
Jeremy did not respond, and only shrunk a fraction more. The flames danced, inching closer.
“I guess that’s been the hardest part. Coming to terms with the fact that the thing that utterly ruined me, that took everything I truly loved and made me unable to connect anymore, was just this… Guy. This regular, human guy. Albeit a fucked up guy, but a regular guy, nonetheless.”
Jeremy sobbed, shrinking again.
“Trauma’s a weird thing, y’know? For the past year and a bit, you’ve been my own personal boogeyman. I couldn’t see, hear, or even think of you, without teetering back into that zone. Without thinking I was suddenly back in your clutches. You had so much power over me, and you barely even knew.”
With a sigh, Krash sat down next to Jeremy, gazing into the distance. “They don’t think I’m going to get better, y’know. The doctors, therapists, whatever. They said this might stick with me for… Pretty much the day I die. And even then, knowing my luck, dying won’t last. I have you to thank for that, y’know. You’ve ruined me. I can never be the person I was before all this, all because of you. You fucking worm.”
Jeremy wailed, shrinking. He was half the size of who he once was, a mere boy rather than a man. “Leave me alone…” The fire grew, coming close, and Krash felt the heat of the fire. It was comforting, reassuring.
“Now that’s a bit hypocritical, isn’t it. But, don’t worry, Jeremy. I fully intend to never see you again after Back In Business. If we ever meet again on this earth, it’ll be too soon. Just know, that when your skin is set aflame, and your clothes melt onto your body, and your limbs fold in on themselves as your muscles contract, that it will get worse. There is a bleak, unending Tartarus waiting for you, and a part of me hopes I can be there to watch you wither. But, a bigger part of me is happier with you being gone.”
Jeremy shivered, the size of a toddler now.
“I suppose people will tell you that I did it all for everything - the next few unlucky bastards who are fortunate enough to be the targets of your fixation. Y’know, the real hero, doing this to save others from my fate. And in a way, that might be somewhat true. I don’t want anyone else to suffer through what I went through. But honestly, and more importantly, it’s just as much for me as it is for anyone else.”
Jeremy finally looked up, his tiny, heartbroken gaze meeting Krash’s, as the fire ticked, just out of reach from his feet.
“You ruined me. You stole my life. And I’m not getting it back. I hate you, and I so rarely hate people - even Shawn Summers, as detestable as he is, I tend to only dislike and be annoyed by. But you? You, I despise. Do you have any idea how much of a pain you have to be for me to despise you? You’re a special case. A basket case, too. No-one else I’ve met has had the pleasure of being someone I truly, genuinely hate… Until you came along and fucked my life up. So, perhaps selfishly, I’ll have to be content with whatever revenge I can get. Taking everything you hold dear, watching you burn, and… Most likely the worst one for you… Never thinking of you again. Erasing you from my mind, and moving forward, without giving you the time of the day, any more.”
Jeremy shivered, looking down, as he grew smaller still, glancing at the fire surrounding him.
“Oh, and by the way, I might have a bit of a unique perspective on this, considering. But, well. How do I put this? I’m not one for spoilers, but Jeremy… I died. Kind of a big deal, that. And because of that, I’ve seen what is waiting for me on the other side. More importantly, I’ve seen what’s waiting for you, on the other side. Jeremy, if you thought this was rough, boy, are you in for a bad time. Let me tell you - a bit of a baptism by fire, and having everything you’ve ever wanted torn away from you - Your school, your title, your friends - is a mercy in comparison to what is waiting for you on the other side.”
The flames grew closer, licking at their skin. Jeremy cried, as Krash stood, placing his boot over the tiny Jeremy’s body, holding him in place as the fire inched closer, engulfing the would-be monster in flames.
"Race you to hell, Jeremy. Burn with me.”
And with that, the fire reached forward, blazing at the two.
One being shrieked, crying, as the flames engulfed him.
The other laughed in victory, his laughter mixing in with the cackling of the fire.
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Post by tommy on Aug 13, 2024 1:06:23 GMT
Tommy Bedlam Promo for the X4. Click title for promo if you wanna read it. |
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Post by supinesnake on Aug 14, 2024 6:51:18 GMT
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