CHAPTER TWELVE: Leaders & Followers [IKT]

San Diego || January 11, 2017 (off camera)

His back itched, those old scars burning and he could have sworn he could feel them oozing, like if he moved his shirt would be stuck to them. He could smell that fear stink of The Circuit, sour coming from his pores like the sickly-sweet sweat of an old booze hound. Today Lex Collins felt closer to forty, felt completely used up in the worst possible ways. His knuckles ached so bad as he tried to unclench his left fist, fingers stealing up to rub over the scar above his eye that cut through his eyebrow. Maybe his most famous war wound and nobody even remembered the moment a so-called champion had gone all vintage Iron Mike and tried to bite his face off. He'd never forgotten. Even though the scar was long-healed, the slight would always be there. Didn't take much to recall the look in Ford's eyes or that turncoat bullshit that kept repeating so many times after. Get gold involved in the equation and people became their true selves. Sure as shit, he was headed back into that same sick cycle again. Why? Why did any of it matter? Olympus wasn't coming back and this limbo had gone from paying respects to pining for paradise lost in the worst way.

"Ozymandias," he muttered, flinching at a sound from the hallway. Probably just the ice machine, he thought, biting his lip as his aching hand fell back to his lap. He hadn't told Claire about the pain since he'd knocked Kennedy's head off. If he kept it taped, maybe she wouldn't notice the stiffness. If he tore the scabs back open, maybe he could pretend he'd gone a few hundred rounds with the bag – wouldn't be much use in his match anyhow. No bricks. He needed to rely on the circles, on the actual geometry of the fight and Elena was going to be tougher than Kennedy had been. "Fuck it," he sighed, shaking his head, wishing he hadn't signed on for this damned thing in the first place. The silence was making his ears ring and he could feel the anxiety clawing at his insides, the dark waters waiting to pull him under. Both hands pushed through his hair, fingers digging into the back of his head where the ache was the worst. The right one trembled, barely perceptible but enough that he had to lock his wrist, pushing harder, wishing Claire was here with her sunny smile.

Claire's with Lani. Lani's with Claire. Shopping or something, remember? They'll be gone all day.

He didn't know what he'd been thinking and everything on social media for the last week had been paint-by-numbers, barely coherent. The Pinterest images. The random replies to keep up presence, to make it look like he was lurking, scouring the feed. Of course he'd brought up Louisville as a place of note, dropping that first big win like it was a milestone – certain things were expected. The words were there. They'd been there for months, that desperation, that desire to catch the feeling in a jar so strong and there were no more fireflies in his dark night. Just cold and the wolves were scratching at the door, paws trampling the snow. They wouldn't come out and if they did, he was going to purge everything, choke on them and die in his sleep.

Not ready to go.

He wanted to hit something again because the anger kept bubbling up, the hatred kept choking him with that bitter taste in the back of his throat. He'd been so stupid to think that the glory would last, to think that winning another belt changed anything about who he really was.

"Fuckin' king of kings, right?" He snorted, eyes lifting to the mirror on the wall and the urge to hurl something into those reflected features was so overwhelming he had to look away and count his breaths. "Look on my works, ye mighty... jus' fuckin' look," he chuckled bitterly, heavy scorn in his voice as it broke over the last syllables, "an' despair."


YouTube posting (audio only, publicly listed)

There's a tinny sound like music coming from distant earphones before the universally familiar sound of a tab being popped on some carbonated beverage. There's a loud slurp, almost deliberately noisy followed by a muffled chuckle.

"Cali-cali-fornia, heh. And it's shallow's low in my head. Welcome back, old friend. Haven't seen you in a while. Thought you were gone for good so maybe this is a relapse? It creeps in. Stealthy-as-fuck. Maybe it's... I dunno, anyone else feel the tides, feel the ebb an' flow watchin' waves roll in? Bury those metaphorical toes in the sand an' feel the foundation give way, feel yourself sinkin' with each return. Always thought quicksand was gonna be more of a thing when I grew up, y'know? All these movies, all these shows when I was younger showed the hero up to his neck, gulpin' that last breath of air 'fore that tricky, hungry ground pulled 'em under. Funny thing, really. Never seen it in my life. Seen my fair share of holes, suckin' mud'at claims your shoes... never that shiftin', sinkin' sand. An' I think I get it now... why it's an image used so much. That loss of control, y'know? A hole, there's a definition – it's a tangible thing – finite with sides an' measurable dimensions. Escape route you can see. Sand's slippery. Fills in too quick an' buries you. Ever tried to dig that hole on the beach or in a sandbox when you were a kid? Yeah, prob'ly did – common experience, right? Sand's rebellious. Does what it wants an' it's such a fuckin' slave to gravity it just wants to get down an' then it's in your lungs an' you can't even scream. Scary."

Lex pauses for a breath, sniffing.

"Last time I was here was half a year ago – time flies. Drove 'cross country 'cause I felt the pull, needed to go back to that beach where I first kissed Claire like I meant it. Needed to throw that switch an' shake off the anxiety 'fore I started climbin' walls an' wiggin' out. Water calls to me. Always has. Tonight, can't answer. Tonight I know I'm..." he mumbles something that sounds like 'unworthy' before softly clearing his throat.

"No video. Want ya t'focus on my words. Not the view," the sentence devolves into a sarcastic chuckle under his breath. There's silence for a few seconds before a breath that rattles in the microphone – a soft sigh punctuated by a swallow.

"Gimme time."

The silence on the heels of that word becomes something more. Waves. Wind. The cry of a gull.

"So'm facin' Elena DeDraca this round. Grapplin' like Slaine forgot half my arsenal's grabby shit but she's the unknown known entity, this proven commodity an' hey there dauntin'-as-fuck. She was hot while I was coolin' on a shelf an' if I was gonna handpick the person to go up 'gainst Rori in my stead? Prob'ly be her. Not gonna lie. That's what makes this so shitty 'cause I know she deserves better outta me but words – fuckin' bastards – won't stay in my head long enough to make it out my mouth,” he sighs, taking another noisy slurp of whatever he's drinking.

"Can't see me but picture hipster Malibu Ken, bearded an' shirtless, shoeless on the beach, walkin', talkin' to himself. It's too cold for natives but Ken don't care 'cause he feels the sun on his back, sand 'tween his toes an' it feels like home in the best worst way. An' the waves... you hear that? Listen!" He laughs, jubilant now.

"This is the real truth. Not the words. Not all the pomp an' circumstance. The automatic stuff – everythin' important's automatic an' a big part of me missed the fray. Smaller part keeps whisperin' the time's still wrong."

He lets the silence spill out, filled with the sound of waves rolling in.

"Hear that. Fuckin' hear it an' tell me the infinite ain't callin' your name. Makes me wanna go Easy Rider into the sunset, rollin' on down the coast highway on the bike. Disappear..." there's another sharp exhale.

"Sometimes silence's worse. Headfuckery. Sometimes you gotta distance yourself from the circus. Those trained monkeys, though? Oh hell, they're impossible to ignore – flingin' feces in your space. You know what I mean, Elena. Not you, okay? Those damned primates get the spotlights over folks like us. We're the meat. The fuckin' potatoes gonna potate an' they're the razzle dazzle fuckin' gravy. Salty shit. Flavor of the week flair while we work our asses off an' the monkeys just wanna scream an' shriek an' beat their chests, fight over the shiny prize. Come an' go... swing in an' swing out. We endure. We're still here long after dark, doin' what we do. Not lookin' for names on marquees. Not lookin' for numbers on a screen or dirty papers to cram in a wallet. We do it for them, for the ones who look right through us. Bananas, right?"

He pauses again.

"Monkeys an' shit – wanna see what sticks. Maybe it's some urge deep-rooted in all of us. Wanna create somethin' outta nothin', y'know? Say 'this' mine', with a level of pride, 'spite all the flies an' shit in the air. Rise above. Get up. Go again. Been a definition so long, been my mantra so long I can't... switch's broke clean off. That's what I do. That's me. Too dumb to stay down. Stubborn, I guess an' it's just, I gotta outlast. I gotta be the... I just gotta..."

He lets out a rueful chuckle.

"Fearless became a synonym for suicidal... more acceptable but the truth's clear: been systematically killin' myself one fight at a time for years. Desire's fled now. Snatched my story back from the brink an' what've I done with this time? Fuckin' nothin', that's what. The pages're half-filled but what I thought was full of heroics' really jus' a story 'bout an early grave, 'bout too many broken bones, too much baggage an' scarred-up knuckles. Ain't no story 'bout some pretty boy suckin' on a silver spoon 'tween these pages. No rags to riches story 'bout some loser who found some magic penny an' got lucky. Nah. This' a story 'bout hard work an' I guess maybe I'm steppin' on toes. Preachin' to the choir 'cause there ain't been no handouts for you neither, has there? I saw the shit they put you through in that other place – to the window, to the wall, to the fuckin' wolves. We don't balk at that. It's how we do. Never an easy skate. Never ever an' if there is, you look up, duck an' cover 'cause that shoe's 'bout to drop."

As if on cue, that self-deprecating chuckle comes in the brief pause.

"Slowest process in the world, true story. Took me the better part of five years – makin' yourself great an' I guess it's a little like tides an' the sand when you get right down to it. Every time I fight I leave a piece of myself in that ring. Guts in Phoenix. Blood in London. Sweat in Chicago. Soul in Vegas. Heart in New York. This industry, it changes you an' some people, they're the scary funhouse mirrors throwin' back all these warped versions, all these mighta-been moments like Jimmy Stewart but that knee-jerk reaction always comes when you're fed up, full-up. What would it be like if I wasn't? Goddamn, the pull's strong tonight an'... shit. No, it's alright. I got this. Just need to switch on. Reset. Didn't. Couldn't. Now... I gotta... back in the water an' dippin' a toe ain't good enough."

There's a splash then a muffled grunt of surprise.

"Shit, it's colder'n I thought but Jesusfuck, feel the undertow! Gotta brace. Resist. 'Cause otherwise?" He claps his hands, the sound deafening. "Under you go. Out in the second round. Embarrassed."

His tone is hollow after the pause, "walk the walk, right? Okay. You wanna know me beyond the video clips an' the false starts an' stops so I'll oblige. I wanna be up there, distantly unfuckwithable. I don't wanna sink or swim. I wanna control the ebb an' flow. I wanna be the one to watch it all wash away when I lay my head to rest at the end of it all. Wanna have that pull, that sway but never have to say a word again."

Lex sniffs. "Waxin'. Wanin'. Shadows cast on my face so I look different but it's really just distance 'tween us. Show up every night, always taken for granted but no one hates the moon. It's a constant. Just there. Always. It don't spend time worryin' what others think 'cause it's too busy with the pull. Too busy controllin' the pulse of our world. So yeah, fuck piddly title aspirations. Fuck bein' Queen or King in this tiny kingdom. I wanna exist on a bigger scale. That's what the waves're sayin' – hear it? Listen, Elena. They're sayin' my time's not over. Not now. Just barely started an' I gotta... I gotta tell someone."

There's another laugh, breathless and delighted.

"Guess what I gotta figure out now is if beatin' you, if wipin' another star from MY sky puts me closer or not. Bettin' it does."

The words cut off into more rolling ocean sounds before the video ends, offering the REPLAY and SUBSCRIBE buttons on opposite corners of the window.