CHAPTER ELEVEN: Failing The Rorschach Test [IKT]

upstate NY || November 29, 2016 (off camera)

Skinned knuckles. Eyes burning, gritty and dry like they were full of sand but it didn’t much matter in the grand scheme. There was no fatigue to go with it. No drain of endless travel and piss-poor sleepless nights spent in rented rooms on someone else’s sheets - even the little over a year spent jetting between Atlantic City and Vegas, between two damned casinos and the boisterous crowds that dwelt within those identical walls wasn’t really missed. Driving the less than an hour into town to lace up his boots for Olympus had been too good to be true, faded insubstantial like a dream now even though he was only fifty-five days removed from the last event - if the black marks on the wall calendar were accurate, that is.

Lex lifted the front of his stained Brutal Apparel tee, mopping the sweat and streaks of engine grease from his face. Just a few more tweaks to the timing belt and The Judge was going to be ready for its first foray out of the garage. He’d rebuilt her from the frame up, spending almost a year on it although his time had been limited before, relegated to only downtime moments between bookings and PR engagements and all that celebrity trip garbage he hated so much. When Claire had pulled out of Boardwalk, the pressure had waned slightly, that nagging worry he’d been choking on since she’d first crashed and messed up her shoulder finally dealt with and filed away. She’d had the surgery. The doctors said she was doing well and he’d finally gotten the clean bill of health. The headaches didn’t come as often anymore and he was back to throwing bricks at the bag like he used to.

Everything kept passing by on Twitter in a blur but he did his best to toss out the crumbs.

Gotta keep the name out there. Don’t let them forget.

They’d already forgotten, he knew it in his bones.

And then he’d seen the photo posted by Phoenix. He’d turned down their invitation to return. He’d ignored the messages from Slaine - or whoever he had in the office sending the conciliatory bullshit in his name - when the news of Olympus’ demise hit social media. That picture of the fight gloves, though. That was too much to pass up because he knew what that meant. The universe was sending him a sign and for once he’d been listening so it didn’t need to bludgeon him over the head or blind him with neon lights. It was quiet. It was subtle. He’d been the first to sign up. He knew.

“It’s time,” he murmured, tightening the last of the bolts, looking up just as the door opened and Claire slipped inside, shaking off the cold. “Snowin’ yet?”

She shook her head, picking up that subtle shift in his energy. She bit her lip, watching him, knowing that he was trying to sort out the words he wanted to say.

He looked down one last time, eyes moving over everything and when he straightened up he seemed lighter. He raked the hair back from his forehead, the smile coming easier than it had in the last few weeks. “Good. You wanna take ‘im for a spin? Think he’s ready to get out there, kick up some dust like he usedta.”

She knew he wasn’t just talking about the car. She knew him well enough to always catch the things he didn’t say, those truths written in his expressive, dark eyes. As she turned towards it she paused, reaching out with her hand and rubbing a bit of grime from his cheek.

YouTube posting (video, publicly listed)

“Hey there Phoenix. It’s been a while. How you been?”

The video resolves from darkness to show former Phoenix Wrestling superstar Lex Collins sitting on the hood of a jet-black vintage muscle car. His head is bowed, elbows resting on his knees. One hand lifts to his face, followed by its mate as he makes the shape of a gun with them. He sighs, eyes closed as he slips his thumbs between his lips and the barrel of his fingers against his forehead. He remains like that for a few seconds, calmly breathing in and out.

“So, no lie. Been a long time since - goddam - The Luxor an’ it’s just like, I dunno. Am I still the same guy who willin’ly walked out back in May? Am I the same guy who broke myself over an’ over for a couple months after that, tryna prove I was a God? Not sure I got much of an answer for that. Doin’ this right now… I dunno. Missed the boat on the last Iron King an’ I regretted it but 2013 or 2014 or whenever it was… things were different. I was. An’ it feels mighty surreal comin’ back here ‘cause when the doors closed, I was there, y’know? Like right there there, ‘bout t’face Rori. On the cusp of cementin’ legacies an’ breakin’ streaks an’ all the worldly aspirations shit an’ then-” he slaps the back of his hand against his palm.

“Over just like that an’ it was all ‘seeya, wouldn’t wanna be ya’ an’ it’s back to the bottom of the barrel. Back to the ol’ provin’ grounds. See, an’ I usedta look at that like a challenge ‘cause writin’ the story with my own pen dipped in my own blood an’ sweat an’ tears felt like the right thing, y’know? An’ for a while. It was good. Did just a bit over a year in Sin City - Cancun Clash to Cancun Clash an’ I guess I’m not special when I say with total sincerity’at 2016’s been a real fuckaree of a year. After Sin City I struggled. Went to Lousiana. Went to California. Dropped a couple matches an’ then I found this place in my own backyard, this place in New York called Olympus, had their own digs called The Parthenon an’ it was all so fuckin’ hokey but y’know how sometimes a thing just feels right? It was that.”

He lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. “So, only dropped one to Mark Force ‘cause I got mauled by a fuckin’ jaguar an’ put through the plate-glass front window of a 7-11. Haven’t lost since an’ Olympus closed its doors with a belt ‘round my waist. Shades of PCW all over again, I guess an’ life would be more excitin’ if the shittiest parts didn’t circle back ‘round. So, mean, technically I still got this fuckin’ albatross ‘round my neck but I mean it ain’t the same. An’ even with the slights, even with the accolades an’ the praise an’ people I don’t know sayin’ how I’m this inspiration to new generation wrestlers… well, some stuff you can’t abide. Some stuff you gotta walk away from ’cause the alternative is somethin’ so heinous, so against your nature’at you can’t… I wanted to go at Rori again so bad. Like you don’t even get how much I’d personally stacked on that moment like it was the biggest benchmark of my career even though I lost to her once already but I poured everything into it. Spent months livin’ an’ breathin’ an’ just walkin’ in her fuckin’ shoes ‘cause I needed the proof an’ when the word came down that the show was cancelled ‘cause Slaine was in a coma an’ the backin’ was gone an’ all that political business horseshit, I wanted to rage like a motherfucker. Tell myself I still got Paris, y’know? Ain’t nobody gonna take my accomplishments from me, all the names of all the so-called legends I beat an’ the streak over a couple promotions an’ how Zoe Thorne said I was....”

He lets his hands drop from his face, elbows resting on his knees as he leans forward to let those long arms dangle between his legs. His fingers twitch, drawing attention to the misshapen and scarred knuckles that are usually hidden by the fight gloves he wears in the ring.

“Verbatim, don’t ‘member, but she put me on that level, that elusive pinnacle I’ve been chasin’ since that rematch ‘gainst Rori got pulled. So hey, it’s hard to recalibrate. Recalculate. The goal was simple when I started ‘cause I wasn’t smart enough to make some elaborate five year plan. I wasn’t clever enough to think of the bigger picture junk - was always the little things for me. The scraps nobody gives a fuck about. The wins over people who dissed an’ dismissed. Droppin’ the worst like bad habits. Droppin’ plates an’ it was never more’n that. Not personal even if they wanted to make out like it was. Wasn’t a crusade or a mission or nothin’ so garish, y’know? An’ now? People know my name. They do an’ that fucks me up in ways nobody really understands,” he chuckles softly, “yeah, reputation’s nice, ain’t it? Sure… but you can’t fill a bucket with enough of that to quench any sorta thirst so… hey.”

He lifts his hand, waving feebly.

“Iron King. Streetfight. An’ on paper this’ right up my damn alley. It’s mine if I want it, y’know? An’ I’m just - Jesusfuck - so damned rusty at this an’ I guess we’re still tippy-toein’ round ’cause all the words’re wrong - fuckin’ minefields. I gotta say the right thing. Arguments’re important. Hype’s… y’know… they’re into that an’ I’m no fuckin’ salesman. I just punch things.”

That hand lifts up, rubbing across his mouth and he hesitates, taking a few deep breaths. Those dark eyes close for a few seconds, his shoulders slumping slightly. When he breaks the silence again, his voice is softer.

“Reinvention’s all well an’ good but unnecessary when people don’t know who you are or what you meant - shit - what Phoenix meant to a guy named Lex for those six months right at the bitter end. So maybe, maybe I’m preachin’ to choirs or puttin’ carts before horses or whatever, but I feel like I gotta explain why it’s gonna be almost three months since I wrestled by the time me an’ this Kennedy fella throw down. So, I’ll explain best I can. Maybe a little visual helps?”

He leans back slightly, lifting the front of his t-shirt. Across his stomach are a few jagged scars - claw marks, really - still faintly pink against his olive-toned skin.

“What doesn’t kill ya,” he chuckles softly, “answers to questions you never asked, I know. Been on the sidelines for a bit. Healin’ up - precognition, maybe? Just tryna get there ‘fore you do, ‘fore this guy starts askin’ why he can’t find nothin’ recent online ‘bout me. Last thing anyone ever saw was me gettin’ hit by a fuckin’ car durin’ an Olympus show. Yeah. Retained my title there an’ at the close of the show got mowed down ‘steada the boss they were aimin’ for. So, there’s that. Wrong place. Wrong time. Story of my life, y’know?”

He clears his throat, shaking his head as he lets his shirt fall back into place.

“An’ I know how it goes. Every little thing leaves a mark,” his lips curve in a wan smile before he leans back and rubs his hand over his bearded jaw. “Makes us who we are an’ maybe some of us get left out in the deluge too long, end up rusted from the rain an’ shit. End up all twisted up an’ broken - got off lucky there, I guess. Watched some places close down. Watched a Phoenix reborn. All sorts of unexpected, y’know? An’ I’m gonna keep that energy, keep that theme rollin’ into this tournament. I want this. Not sayin’ my opponent don’t or nothin’ as dumbfuck as that. Just sayin’ I know what I know an’ I know who I am. Who I gotta be an’ what I gotta do once the shit hits the fan. All those false starts, all the storms I weathered since the last run in Phoenix - hell, since the last time I looked at that big ol’ black pyramid an’ that enigmatic Sphinx guardin’ its entrance - s’all been prep for this moment right here. Las Vegas Lariat versus Fearless… versus Indestructible Lex Collins. Hell of a thing, man. Hell of a thing.”

Lex starts rubbing his left knuckles, kneading them between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “First time in forever I feel ready an’ I gotta level with ya, guy. I’m gonna stick around if I can an’ that’s gonna be good. Ain’t gonna end the way the last few’ve ‘cause I don’t smell smoke other’n the fires I’m lightin’ right now.” He chuckles.

“Take it one further an’ this boat’s not takin’ on water. I’m fresh as a daisy over here, sober’s a judge an’ I’m ready. All these definitions; all these versions of me collidin’ an’ mixin’ right up ‘cause I’ve been a zero. Been a sinner. Been a champion… a hero… a God… an’ now? ”

He pauses a beat, a ghost of a smile there on his lips for a moment before he lets out a soft chuckle.

“Well, ain’t never been a King before. Aces, Lariat. Let’s do this.”

The view fades to black with a sly wink and a smirk, the SUBSCRIBE and REPLAY buttons appearing on opposite corners.