Falling Down

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Silence mocks me, in a room filled with noise. Smoke, flashing lights, and a cold glass in my hand. I couldn't be more in my element, back in the den of iniquity, with all the carnal sins. I felt alive here, hunting for death at the bottom of a bottle of vintage Scotch. Craving a little obliteration, existential extinction, like no other. Willing myself into this familiar pair of shoes, and finding it's so fucking easy to come back here.

Tits and ass. Booze and coke. Fuck yeah, it's paradise for the fatally impaired. It's sad; I'm still handing out thrills for the masses. Guess it's not much different than my old day job, is it?

Cold and catatonic, I'm watching this fine piece of ass grind on stage, shooting stars tattooed on her hips that make me think of childhood ambitions to be an astronaut. See the stars up close. I guess I got that wish, in a roundabout way. The stars are cold, the sky nothing but a dark void tonight as the clouds roll in from the coast. One hell of a storm brewing, like always. Drink a toast to absent friends, and realize that the people I once purported to hate, the people I spewed the most venom at are all gone. Sometimes that fucks me up. I didn't expect to outlast them.

Total fucking awareness- aware of the fact that every inch of my body hurts. Inside and out. That's the part that fucks with my head. I was never supposed to be a survivor. I spent so much time being a victim, I never realized they were the same damn thing.

I try to clear my head, lose myself in the view. Lose myself in the music. Think about nothing but the solitary refinement of this base interaction I'm watching. They wave the bills, clamoring for one glance of that cold beauty on stage. She flashes that predatory smile, has them eating out of her hand. Flash a little skin; tug on those g-string straps just enough to get the creeps salivating. We're all like Pavlov's dog when confronted with our own libido.

Wrap my head around the fact that I'm not a wrestler anymore. That was a wild ride. Fame train. I thought it would NEVER end. Now I see that all things end. Good things. Bad things. Just another trite little fact of life. It all ends up on life's cutting room floor. Fuck it, I don't want to ride on some past reputation. I want to make it on what I'm doing now.

This is a new start. New reality.

I'm going to have to change. I don't want to.

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Monday, April 27, 2009
The Killer Queen, Las Vegas

He never really trusted the Russians. Never.

Aleksander Lyashenko had that pale, pasty pigment that only the chronically ill, or basement nerd/closet goth had. He was neither, just blessed to be an albino, as he often told Jackson with a hearty chuckle. His eyes were so pale only the pupils were visible, his hair an icy shade of platinum blonde.

A thin dusting of Columbia's finest limned his nostrils as he leaned forward, clasping his hands. The cacophony was muted back here, behind closed doors, but if he listened hard enough he could hear the vibration in the walls. Heavy bass throb.

Jackson sat on the chair in front of him, filled with defiance, despite the guns that were trained on him.

"Comrade Jackson, I am curious," Lyashenko intoned, leaning against his desk. "What made you think you could, how you say, escape with the cat's skin?"

Jackson shrugged, but made no move to reply. Instead he stared back into Lyashenko's eyes with that listless impassivity.

"My associates… we are practical men. We do not sweat over the details, or suffer with rotten guts when things-"

Jackson looked away, chuckling softly. "Yeah. Sounds like. How about you level with me Aleks, and tell me what the fuck this is really about?"

The other solid brick shithouse in the room raised his Ruger, pointing it level at Jackson. "He means, we don't lose sleep over shit like this, jerkwad. We don't get indigestion over wasting pieces of shit like you."

His attention dropped to his lap, and he began to crack his knuckles. Each one was a muffled gunshot. Anyone who knew him well knew that this was just part of his pre-game ritual. Living on the wrong side of violence for most of his life had taught him to recognize potentially dangerous moments. This barely registered as a blip on his radar. Unruffled, he snorted loudly, and worked the thick phlegm in his mouth together before spitting it. Bull's-eye. It landed directly on the polished toe of the goon's boot.

"You fucked up." Jackson said, moving to his feet, only to press his palms against the cool surface of the desk. "Assuming I give two shits about life or death is a mistake."

"Mr. Petrov has been very specific. He would like to offer you a bonus for your match this week."

Jackson said nothing, stolidly. His eyes were active though, jittering around as though afraid to look at anything too long. Truth was, he was sealing every last detail into memory.

"Tell him to get fucked, Aleks. In twelve fuckin' years I have never thrown a match." He shook his head, anger snapping in his gaze as he glared at Lyashenko. "That's not about to change today. Fuck off."

"Fifty thousand." Lyashenko snapped his fingers, and one of the henchmen in the shadows stepped forward, setting the worn briefcase on the desk. Jackson didn't bother to look at the contents as the latches clicked open.

"I think maybe I wasn't clear. I'll try not to stutter." His eyes were narrowed, lips thinned down to nothing as that vertical slash carved a furrow between his brows. "FUCK. YOU." He enunciated each of the two words, precisely. There was no mistaking the meaning.

Lyashenko smirked at Jackson, shaking his head slowly, his voice oozing with fake regret. "Comrade Jackson, be a reasonable man. You do not want to do the fucking around with us. We'll come to your girlfriend's house and smash her face in. She will need years of the surgeries. Doctors bills that you cannot afford-"

Jackson's hand slammed down on the desk, the concussive force rattling back up his arm. The briefcase fell to the floor, neat little stacks of greenbacks spilling out. "You don't threaten her, Aleks."

Aleks snapped his fingers. "Maybe this Comrade Silas would like this money."

"Don't." Jackson snapped.

"You are a joke now?" Lyashenko giggled, the sound completely out of character for a grown man. Jackson fell silent again, retreating to slump back in the chair. He groped in his pocket, pulling out a small box of wooden matches. He shook it, letting the little sticks rattle together as he reached for the crumpled pack of Camels on the desktop. He fished one out, rolling it across his knuckles.

"Money," his voice was a raspy reply, grown rusty from lack of use these past few months. "You think tossing a case of blood money at me is going to buy out my morals? Sorry. This is my life we're talking about, Aleks." Jackson snorted in derision. "Money. Not respect. Not power. Fuck, you guys really are clichés."

Jackson pulled the P5 from beneath his leather duster, pointing it at Lyashenko's head, managing to make the draw seem fluid and natural, even from a sitting position. "Stand the fuck up, bitch." Anger twisted his features, his eyes filled to the brim with unchecked rage.

The dark chasm filled his vision, expanding like a solar eclipse, stealing the light from the room and the breath from his lungs. With shaky arms, he pushed up from the chair, gulping visibly. He didn't doubt for a second that Jackson would kill him without batting an eye. The guy was batshit crazy. With deliberate motions, Jackson withdrew the silencer from his pocket, screwing it into the threaded barrel of the pistol.

"Comrade…"

"Don't fucking talk, asshole." Jackson snapped, bringing the pistol back to bear on the only Russian he'd ever considered a friend. "Don't even try to plead for your life, you miserable puke. You killed McLeod, and I never really forgave you for that. I thought you should know."

One of The Killer Queen's hired muscle moved forward, spreading out a tarp on the floor. Lyashenko shook, visibly shook as he stared at Jackson.

"Stand on the sheet." He barked, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. They dangled from his fingers as he stepped closer.

"No. No." The words came out, unbidden. Just like that, his life was flashing before his eyes. He felt his bladder threatening to loosen, and thought with his last coherent one that there was no way he'd piss himself for that psycho Brad Jackson.

"Hold out your hands, Aleks," his voice was unkind now, as though the previous acidity had been his version of nice.

Reluctantly, Lyashenko extended his hands, and Jackson snapped the bracelets home, giving them a jerk to make sure they were tight. He stepped back, nodding to himself. "Nice, very nice, Aleks. Given different circumstances, I might have kept you on my Christmas card list." He said it like it was a blessing, and then drew back his arm, slamming the silenced P5 against the Russian's temple. It hurt to dissolve the partnership, and not just because of the primo coke. Lyashenko went down hard, and Jackson turned away, watching impassively while the goons loaded Aleksander Lyashenko into the tarp. "Fuckin' Russians. Drive him out to the middle of nowhere. Ditch him there. Naked."

The sigh that passed his lips was resigned, and filled with a weariness that cut him to the bone. He let his head drop into his palms, elbows balanced on the desk as he breathed in and out, slowly in an effort to steel himself. Turning down an offer like that was dangerous. Probably deadly.

The girl watched him from the doorway, her features hidden in the shifting shadows.

Jackson dragged himself out of the chair, noting the sweat stain on the leather. He shrugged out of the leather duster, letting it puddle at his feet. A second later he pulled the worn shirt off over his head, and tossed it on the floor. He stopped under the vent, bracing his palms against the wall, letting the cold air wash over him. His jeans rode low on his narrow hips, if not for the belt they might have fallen off. He hadn't eaten a square meal in days.

"Hey sexy," a voice at his side said, the tone sultry and decidedly feminine. Soft and sexy, it was almost a purr. He lifted his head, and looked, finding a woman silhouetted in the doorway. The light in the hallway accented her figure, silvering her outline.

"Hey yourself," Jackson said, managing a thin smile.

She stepped away from the door frame, swinging the door shut behind her as she moved towards him. The shadows clung to her lovingly, highlighting her curves. She was a knockout. Jackson stood still, watching her move across the room. He ground his back teeth together as he felt a twinge in his loins. It was Angelica- Angie to her friends. Angel Eyes when she was stripping on stage. Petite and blonde, she was every guy's horny fantasy.

She didn't have the street-worn body of a hooker, or the fake body of one of the dancers. She looked more like a goddess in this light.

Jackson grunted, lowering his chin to his chest as he scowled. "You heard that shit, didn't you?"

She looked away, guiltily. "Yeah. Tried not to, but I heard the last bit."

"It's not the death that matters," he chuckled ruefully, a strange look on his face, "it's the opportunity for resurrection."

"What," she cocked her head, studying him, "is that supposed to mean?"

"Fuck if I know," he muttered, one broad shoulder rising and falling in a shrug. "Ten years from now, I'm probably going to look back on this shit and laugh… but right now it doesn't feel too damn funny."

He looked very old as he said this- used up and fragile.

She wanted to reach out and put her hand over one of his. She could see them shaking, trembling as they pressed against the wall. She wanted to tell him that everything would be ok. Some clichéd Annie shit about the sun coming out tomorrow. Looking at his grim expression, she didn't feel the words, but something compelled her to say them. "It'll be ok."

She didn't touch him. He didn't look at her.

He said nothing.

"Sometimes," she said softly, leaning against the desk and looking up at him, "all a guy needs is-"

"Don't need anything." His voice was that broken glass growl, the one that made her wince. Head bowed, he turned his face from her. She shied away, alternately repelled and frightened. She didn't see the tears that filled his eyes. She didn't see the blood that trickled down his stubbled chin as he bit his lip hard enough to split it open. "Go away, Angie." He didn't say it harshly. No emotions crept into the words and betrayed him. He just sounded tired.

He looked so sad. Like a man who knew his days were numbered, and had resigned himself to that fate without a fight.

Later she'd wonder if touching him would have made a difference, if that simple gesture of human contact would have done any good. She told herself that was silly. Foolish little girl stuff out of fairytale books. She told herself it wouldn't have. She knew it wouldn't. But still, for just a moment, as she lay awake in the dark that night, knowing that he was driving back to Los Angeles alone, she wished she'd held his hand.