009 (Weapon) [iiW]

here by my side, the devil

never turn your back on me

never turn your back on me, again

here by my side, it's Heaven

— Matthew Good

Saturday, June 19, 2004

The air was cold, almost unseasonably so, as he stood there in the parking lot, battered and bruised. The sheer exhilaration of a first successful title defense had been shattered into a million pieces by one surreal moment and here he was like Brando in the parking lot, about to scream a name into the night. The sweat on his chest and back turned to ice as he turned around in a slow circle, still looking to catch a glimpse of the spectre he'd been pursuing even though his heart felt like it was going to explode cartoonishly from his chest. His mind failed to grasp the concept that Shawn Stevens was alive, although he had just been less than a foot from the mystery man when he'd ripped off the mask that covered his face. It had to be a mistake… a trick… something.

It felt like he was the last sane person in a world gone horribly crazy. He felt utterly alone.

He held up his hands, and looked at them trembling before bringing them to his burning cheeks. His breath was rattling in and out of his chest, a haggard wheeze as he stood there, utterly horrified. His mind tried to convince him of what his heart denied. That wasn't Shawn. It was impossible. Absurd. People who die stay dead except in horror movies— he hadn't been a rotting zombie any more than this was some hallucination brought on by sobriety. He'd had two shots before heading out for the match, just enough to take the edge off. It had burned up completely now and he was judge sober.

Shawn IS dead!

Gowan had seen him laying there, dead and cold on a sheet-covered gurney, with bullet wounds in his chest. The dead don't walk and they certainly don't wrestle.

A primal scream exploded from his lips, turning into an anguished howl.

If Shawn was alive then everything he'd done for the sake of vengeance, everything he'd done for that damned belt was—

"NO!" He screamed the word so loud he tasted blood.

Shawn was dead. He had to be because otherwise— "I killed a man," the words came out seconds before he fell to his knees, already gagging. His head was pounding, another concussion looming. Shawn had attacked him with a chair. Something in that was familiar in a way that niggled in the back of his head— before his mind registered the movement, he was back inside the arena, retracing his route, his footfalls echoing in the deserted maze of corridors. Still no sign of his very much alive brother. He stormed into the production truck and froze. A replay of the last moments of the match was playing, looping on the ten-minute censorship delay to the fans back in America. Shawn swinging the chair. Gowan's own look of stupid shock. Shawn laughing as the WCWF World Champion fell, mocking him. The truth stared him in the face.

"NO!"

Gowan winced, squeezing his eyes shut as pain throbbed in his temples. He could feel the anger building as his teeth clenched. A muscle in his jaw jumped as he ground his teeth, standing stock still, his body a study in tense lines. His eyes snapped open, filled with tears and anger, brimming with the pain he felt inside. With a roar befitting a tiger, he started battering the equipment as the technicians scrambled for cover.

Sparks flew. Glass shattered. It wasn't enough.

His entire body was vibrating with rage, his breath whistling in and out between his bared teeth. His skin was hot with anger, burning with fever, and his pulse pounded in his veins, beating a tympani in his temples. He felt lightheaded, as a dizzying lack of oxygen threatened to pull him under. The face of the devil still mocked him on that freeze-frame before he smashed his fist through the screen. His hands were like claws as he started digging at the equipment again and then strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him back.

"Lawrence, stop." The voice was soft, perfectly cultured with a hint of a British accent— Chauncy. Why was he here? What was he doing in Russia at an event for a company he didn't work for and had no interest in?

"Let me go!" He screamed, flailing.

"No. Never." Like an angel, he was here at the exact right time.

Another scream built up, ripping from his throat before everything went dark.

(the present: Nashville, Tennessee: SVW Uprising)

Sunday, August 31, 2014

Stone slowly got back to his feet, reaching into his tights for something. And as Gowan turned around, he clocked him with a pair of brass knucks! Gowan dropped like a rock!

Alex: I believe he calls that the FALCON PAWNCH!

Mark: McGuire didn't see it, and Tirri's trying to get through the security! Stone just blasted him with those brass knuckles!

The Showman shoved the knucks back into his tights. Stone made the cover, shouting at the referee to get over there. McGuire turned back to the match and dove into position.

ONE!!!!

TWOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

The fans booed to no end as Stone sat up on his knees before the referee raised his hand in victory. Security was pulling Tirri away from the ring as Stone rose to his feet, pointing towards him and kissing his hand before smacking his own ass with it.

Mark: Stone, with the help of some knucks, just stole this match! And now he's trying to incite Tirri even more! That man doesn't even work here!

Alex: Gowan should blame Tirri for all of this! Oh good, Matt is apparently telling Tirri how he feels about him.

John: The winner of the match…..'THE ABOMINABLE SHOWMAN' MATT STONE!!

Stone headed back towards his fallen opponent. He pulled Gowan's head between his legs, asking him if he still wanted to be in the Pride picture before he hoisted him up for a piledriver. He held him upside down for a few seconds and then spiked him into the canvas.

Mark: This is ridiculous! It's bad enough! The match is over and Stone is continuing the assault!

Alex: He told him to leave it alone, but no! Ol' Glory Hog Gowan can't stand not to be the center of attention. Well he is now, so I hope he's happy!

Security had nearly pulled Tirri out of the arena by this point and Stone pulled Gowan up again. He locked him into place for another piledriver before someone took off down the ramp and caught him with a clothesline. Stone started to get up before the man threw him out of the ring, kneeling down beside Gowan.

Mark: Good Lord, that's Chauncy!

(the past: Moscow)

Sunday, June 20, 2004 

"Lawrence?"

And then there was Chauncy, kneeling beside him when his eyes opened, making everything infinitely more complicated.

"Law—"

"I heard you the first time," Gowan muttered. "You never answered me. Why are you here?"

"Your first big title defense," Chauncy said softly, "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Gowan let out a very uncharacteristic snort, shaking his head. He kept seeing the face under that mask. He kept seeing that crimson flower blooming on the white sheet. He kept seeing that dead-eyed stare, bouncing back and forth between the past and the present.

"Let me take you back to the hotel, Lawrence. Please? I think it would be good for you to s—" he broke off before he could say 'sober', "shower up and get some rest."

"He was dead."

The silence returned, Chauncy falling silent as he tried to grope with what he could say in the face of this turn of events. The last time they'd spoken was the day he'd brought Gowan home from the hospital after they'd found him backstage, hacking up his wrists with a piece of broken glass. He'd gone out to buy groceries and returned to find Lawrence had bolted after having a fight with Jackson— that damnable asshole could be blamed for the majority of Gowan's issues.

If Shawn was alive then he'd killed a man for no reason. The gun was in his duffel bag, back in the trunk of his car, at the airport in Toronto. He longed to feel that cool, comforting weight in his hands. He wanted to look into that dark tunnel, and feel the thrill of Russian roulette; he was, after all, in Russia. He could see, in his mind's eye, the gaping chasm of his good intentions, yawning at his heels like an open grave. The farther, and faster he ran from it, the bigger it became and it was about to swallow him whole. He sat there, turning the knife over and over, balanced on the precipice. He could see the stains on his hands, even if nobody else could. This was the same knife. The one that had killed a stranger named Bruno— an eye for an eye, or so he had told himself at the time. He'd gotten it through airport security by taping it to the back of the title belt, packed inside its own protective case. They hadn't bothered to check it out— he felt safer with the knife. It was easy to rationalize it, with Shawn dead. His love was that strong, his convictions that concrete. But that was then and this was now. The carpet had been whisked out from under him, and he was falling down the rabbit hole. Everything was a lie.

"Lawrence, please put the knife down. You're scaring—"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" He screamed the words, spittle flying from his lips like foam as his head whipped around. "Why can't you just go away and leave me the motherfucking hell alone." He never swore, but right now it felt so damned liberating to let the expletives flow. "Get out of my locker room, you goddamned nuisance! I DON'T WANT YOU HERE!"

Chauncy bowed his head, taking in a deep breath. "Did you ever consider that perhaps I want to be here?"

Gowan didn't reply. Instead he deliberately turned away, catching sight of his own reflection staring back at him in the mirror on the wall, distorted at this angle. And that's how he felt, warped and out of focus. He thought he knew who he was. He flinched when he saw Chauncy moving towards him out of his peripheral vision. "Please..." he shuddered, "please don't touch me again."

Chauncy knelt beside him, touching his shoulder despite the warning. "Please calm down," he said softly, only to recoil when Gowan flailed, almost catching him in the face with an elbow.

"Get off me, you worthless little fucking F-FAGGOT!"

The youngest Rottonbottom brother cringed at the word, rocking back on his heels. "I will let that comment slide for now, but only because you've had a shock—"

"A shock?!" Gowan was incredulous, "is that what you call it? Right. A shock. I thought my brother was murdered and I stabbed a man in the guts with this goddamn knife and left him for dead—"

"What?" Chauncy's hand clapped over his mouth as he stared at Gowan in horror.

"I killed a man." He should have felt sick at that thought, but instead he felt nothing but an odd calm. Detachment. It was like watching himself on a television screen while munching on popcorn— some form of entertainment. So why did he feel so repulsive? He'd laid waste to another human being, even if the man was scum who deserved it, that didn't make it right. He'd broken a rule he held dear and become nothing better than those he'd hunted. He was garbage.

"Surely you're joking." Chauncy's voice shook and Gowan found himself relieved that the eighteen-year-old didn't try to touch him again.

His self-loathing was greater than any he had felt before. His body ached, but he didn't notice nor did he even care if he still held the World Title. Everything had changed in the blink of an eye, when they'd met those of the man he had called brother. He could tell himself that it was impossible— that Shawn was dead— it would just be more lies. He knew his brother's soul, and he had seen that in his eyes.

His own eyes were swollen, red-rimmed and limned with weariness. He'd trusted Shooter. He'd allowed himself to be manipulated into chasing after the title belt because Duke had wanted to use him as a pawn. The thing that rankled most was that all the while, Shooter and Shawn were conspiring behind his back. He chuckled, and the sound was harsh, entirely unpleasant.

"Why? Why did you do it?"

"I didn't—"

"What sort of sick person would fake his own death... and let his... his... family... suffer like that? I thought I knew you, Shawn." Gowan stumbled to his feet, unsteady on legs that were trembling with the afterburn of adrenaline. Vodka. There was a fifth in his locker. Who visited Russia and didn't partake of the local beverages? When in Rome— he unscrewed the cap, and drank greedily of the contents, enjoying the burn as the tasteless liquid scorched his throat before igniting his stomach. He held up the bottle, and mockingly toasted his former tag team partner.

"He said he'd kill me if I didn't get sober." A sharp bark of hysterical laughter passed his lips as he turned around, stalking towards the door. He jerked it open, shouting into the deserted hallway. "Make good on your promise, Shawn... I'm right fucking here! KILL ME, YOU BASTARD!"

"Lawrence," Chauncy's hand fell on his shoulder only to be shrugged off again.

"What are you waiting for, huh? Take me out, you coward! TAKE ME OUT!" The tears were spilling down his face, his hand fisted so tight around the vodka bottle that his fingers ached.

"Larry, pl—" the words died as Gowan turned around, the knife that was still in his hand grazing Chauncy's stomach. He jumped backwards, but not in time to save the button on his shirt.

"He can bring it all he wants," Gowan muttered, "doesn't know who he's dealing with anymore. I'm not the same person I was... I've... changed."

He let the empty bottle fall from his fingers, not noticing as it bounced and rolled away. The knife was still in his hand... his eyes locked on the mirror as he inched closer and closer to his troubled reflection. The blade kissed the glass, making a sharp squeal as it bounced out of his grip. He didn't notice. He looked deep, into his own eyes, and what he saw horrified him. Evil. His eyes were silvery, colorless and flat, like dirty dimes. His face was hard lines, his cheekbones more prominent than before. Five o'clock shadow graced his cheeks and chin, making the waxen pallor all the more noticeable. He looked like a man on the verge of collapse.

His fist lashed out, connecting with the center of his reflected face, shattering the glass. Broken bits fell, glimmering silver, a thousand warped reflections of himself. An eye here... a nose there— he felt just as shattered— broken in a million places, never to be repaired. His heart ached, filled with a gaping loneliness. It made him want to kill those who had made him feel this way. The anger was all-consuming and he was choking on it. He'd kill them all. Chauncy. Shooter. Shawn— the last bullet he'd save for himself.

"I'll kill him," the words came out hard, "I'll f-fu-freakin' do it! Don't think—"

"Don't say that," Chauncy murmured, his voice breaking, "please, please, Lawrence. Be—"

"THIS IS HIS HANDIWORK!" And it was so easy to lay the blame on Shawn. The World Title sat on the bench, mocking him. Was it worth all this? Was that sliver of fame worth the complete destruction of every single truth he'd ever known?

"I hate you," the words came out in a hoarse whisper, clogged with tears as Gowan pulled away from his former partner. He slid to the floor and plucked up a shard of glass, looking at his distorted image before running the jagged edge slowly over the faded and puckered scar on the inside of his wrist. Blood welled, and he felt satisfied, sated for a moment as he let the evil bleed out. Cutting himself open told a story without the need of clumsy words— the breach in his body's integrity was akin to his soul dripping on the tiles. He could stop the cutting but that wouldn't stop the pain. It could never stop the shards of his shattered soul, the jagged fragments of his innocence from shredding his psyche.

Chauncy's hand closed over his wrist, squeezing it hard enough to make his fingers relax. The shard fell and joined its brethren. "Please don't hurt yourself like this," the young man chided, pulling Gowan into his embrace. "It kills me to watch you do this."

"Then don't watch," he tried to twist out of Chauncy's grip, but the boy was too strong. Guilt was tearing him apart, and the tears that coursed down his cheeks were hot with regret. "SAWF is closed. The team is dead... j-just go away, S-skippy."

"I can't, Lawrence," his voice was strained over some emotion that Gowan couldn't place.

His sobs caught in his throat as he buried his face in Chauncy's shoulder, crumbling completely. "Don't leave me," he sputtered through labored breaths.

"I won't, Lawrence. I..." he almost said the words, biting them back at the last moment. The last thing he needed was to hear those damnable three words from some 'worthless little faggot'. "I'm here," he concluded softly, hugging his former partner tight, "always by your side. I won't ever turn my back on you again."

(the present: Nashville, Tennessee)

Monday, September 1, 2014 

"You should have let me die," the words came out in a harsh rasp before Gowan even opened his eyes. Despite the cold washcloth that covered them, he knew he wasn't alone. One hand lifted from the bathtub full of ice water, sending a few of the cubes rattling against the porcelain in a way that made him ache intensely for a drink. Those trembling digits wrapped around the edge of the tub, squeezing hard as if he needed to brace himself for another onslaught. "Matt Stone would have broken my neck, my face... something I'm sure— you could have just stayed away and gotten your wish. No more Knights. No more ties to bind you here." The room was utterly silent by reply but he resisted the urge to remove the cloth and the icepack that was sandwiched between the damp layers. He figured he really didn't want to see the expression on Chauncy's face anyhow. It was easy enough to hear the recrimination in every soft intake of breath.

"Since you're here," he started talking again, babbling because the silence was far worse and not just because he could hear the distorted thrumming of his pulse in his ears. His imagination could fill in the gaps pretty easily after the way the last few months had gone. "Give me the papers; I'll sign them before you go." He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing and if the water hadn't been opaque with Epsom salts, he might have considered covering himself for the sake of modesty. He suddenly felt very small and very exposed. A sigh escaped his lips, "I don't have it in me to drag this out any longer—"

"I shredded them before I got on the plane..."