006 [DWF]

July 2, 2010

Max ducked between the graffiti-covered boards, glancing back down the darkened stairwell. Horror movies generally started in a place like this. He turned, getting a face full of dusty cobwebs. Spitting and swatting in revulsion, he slipped inside the abandoned boxing club. "Disgusting," he muttered, snapping on the little penlight he carried on his keys to banish the heavy shadows. The stench of mildew was so heavy it took his breath away.

Curtis had bought the place, sight unseen, unable to pass up the great deal. He'd always had the dream of opening a great gym, getting in on the new cross fit craze because he was convinced it wasn't just a fad.

"Hey," his voice came out louder than he'd intended, bouncing back distorted, "Curt? You here?"

A small laugh echoed off the rafters before the former pro wrestler stepped out from the shadows, grinning. "Well? What do you think?" He thumped his palm against one of the support beams and Max flinched at the sound, expecting the ceiling to rain down. "She's got solid bones."

Max laughed, "got a pack of matches in the car. You want me to go get ‘em so we can torch this dump for the insurance money?"

"I figured you of all people would be able to look past the surface. You're here because I wanna make an offer. This is gonna be my legacy, man. Forget the ring. Forget all those thumbtacks and weed whackers and all that crazy shit. I'm getting out while I still can and this is gonna be the future. Gonna call it FIT LEGIT-

"Hey," eyes narrowed behind his glasses, "those crazy shit matches pay the bills. Otherwise, I don't get booked," Max fired back, "I don't..."

"And you probably won't ever break that glass ceiling, Max. Let's be honest here. You're a sideshow attraction at best. So what do you say, man? You wanna invest?"

Max slouched against the wall, frowning. "If you think pissing me off is gonna..."

"There's a ring." Curtis cocked a thumb over his shoulder, "if you wanna iron out our differences once and for all. That's if Mighty Max doesn't have a problem getting a little dirty."

"Getting dirty's my middle name," Max snarled, his voice a low growl as he rolled into the ring, moving to his feet.

His palm connected with Curt's chest, shoving him back a few steps. Curtis leapt forward, connecting with a return push that sent Max into the ropes. Dust fell, and the ropes vibrated as Max pushed off from them, locking the fingers of his good hand around Curtis's neck. Curtis started trying to pry the death grip off his throat. After a few seconds he finally managed to and placed a well-timed boot into Max's chest. He staggered back and Curt caught his bad arm, slinging him around and right into a headlock. Max broke out and Curt grabbed him in a full nelson. Max grinned, croaking out, "bet you wanted to do this for a long time, didn't you?"

Instead of fighting the hold, Max grabbed fistfuls of Curtis's shirt, and rolled backwards, the momentum sending Curtis up and then down into his raised knees. The hold around his throat waned for a split second, long enough for Max to draw another breath.

"You have no idea!" Curtis snarled. Max scrabbled to his hands and knees, trying to regroup, and put some space between himself and his cousin. Dust filled his mouth as Curtis's booted foot struck him in the ribs, sending him back down, "stop..." Max wheezed, "this is crazy. We're supposed to be f-family..."

"Everyone has an off day, a bad night they wish they could take back. Out there in the spotlight, things are tricky. In the heat of the moment, it's hard to predict what's going to happen. You try and think a few moves ahead of your opponent and you're going to get yourself all mixed up. Believe me, it happens. Case and point being my match against Adalynn Duncan. On the heels of a decisive victory over Richard Drake, I shoud've been primed for victory."

He shrugs.

"Shit happens. I know that comes off so dismissive, so blasé but it's also the truth. You make a mistake and dwelling on it doesn't reset the world - you have to accept it and move on. Build a bridge and get over it, as the kids are saying these days. With the amount of spreading the love Miss Duncan does, I feel like she knows this intimately. You can't throw a stone into the aether of social media without hitting a company she's involved with..." Max chuckles, "at least that's how it feels. I understand that. I used to take as many bookings as I could, trying to make sure my face, my name, my brand was getting out there. Eventually you have to stop, you have to reconcile the wear and tear of all that travel versus the exposure. But you're still young. You can probably stay up all night, greet the sun and keep right on partying. Probably seems like I'm envious of that. I'm really not. I'd rather get enough sleep so I can return to the gym refreshed, ready to put my body through its paces again."

Shaking his head, he continues, "and it seems as though you think I did you a disservice because I went dark on social media after losing to you. You feel as though you shut me up and received nothing in return. Quite frankly, Miss Duncan, gaining a win over me doesn't mean you automatically garner respect. If that were the case, your future BFF Coral Rose would be the most beloved female wrestler of all time, second only to Kasey Summers. I was prepared to give you the props you earned. Now I just want to pull down your pants and bend you over my knee, give your bratty ass the spanking it sorely deserves. But you knew you'd get under my skin with that garbage, didn't you?

Between the ropes, with those hot lights and the cameras rolling, we're a little like characters on a novel's page, aren't we? We're the sum of equal parts supposition and rumor-mill legend. What you truly know about me that can be verified is so insignificant that it doesn't matter. It gets eclipsed and overshadowed by the other hubris. It gets tossed aside like wins and losses are everything. They're not."

Max blinks, looking down at his bad hand as it involuntarily curls into a fist.

"I'm used to all the flash by now. These desperate attempts to differentiate yourself from the pack. Some dye their hair unnatural colors. Some decorate their bodies with tattoos carefully chosen off the flash wall at the local shop, letters inked across their knuckles so they have a catchy eight-letter sentiment for photo ops. Some make sure to milk social media for all its worth, picking fights and posting the worst sort of attention grabs. I can't be bothered to do much more than catalogue my life in little snips. I bought a new car. I trained. I flirted with a girl I didn't realize was taken. Boring things but you feel the need to hate me for not giving you fifteen seconds of fame. Why? I don't even give myself that courtesy most days.

I had hoped you'd be different. Instead you pulled off the same bullshit I've been dealing with since I came here. You're beyond annoying. You're a dime a dozen and there are others in this roster better than you... like Nora Harris, for example. I hate to be the one to break this to you two, but you could turn off the lights, both sound off and nobody would really be able to tell who's who. That's not good. Not at all. But you're not here to cultivate some misanthropic, hard-done-by image. You can't claim to be overlooked when you're drawing Main Event bookings. Won't stop you from trying. Of course not. But you're not trying to collect accolades. You're just here to wrestle and win, cross an item off a bucket list and undo the damage done previously in the hopes that you can go up against our esteemed champion in the future. Who on this roster hasn't she beaten? Are there any names left? And there's where the supposition comes in because you've never really expressed that clearly, openly. Your disdain towards me made it clear you think you could do it better. By all means, go ahead and flatten yourself on that glass like a bird seeing a reflection in a window and thinking that's the way through to paradise. Great way to end your career, really.

Sure, you've danced around the question a time or two before going out there to meet your demise but you never really hit that nail on the head. You like to fill the empty spaces with words but they're mostly set dressing without any sort of depth. Why are you here? Is it because you want to make some money to finance your travel addiction? Are you here because you're the best in the world and wanna prove it on the grandest scale? Nope. That's the Defiant Champ's thing. The bucket list is a funny concept, isn't it? You make a list of the big things you want to do before the end: hike to the top of Mount Everest, ride a horse, learn a new language, beat Aidan Carlisle. It's all the same thing, really. Grasping at straws, trying to seize that last moment of life so you can squeeze the juices from it. That's the golden ticket and you tell yourself that the more matches you take the closer you get. You're hoarding all the Wonka bars in the hopes that the law of averages will tilt your way. Sure, it worked for Veruca Salt - got her in the door. She ended up losing out in the end, but you're special. Can't possibly happen to you after all the preparation.

So who are you really, Miss Duncan? How about you, Miss Rose? Are you winners or losers? Guess our destiny in Bowling Green holds those answers. See you there, ladies."