013: Willing Monster

The dripping faucet was rhythmic, lulling him towards that drowsy place once the adrenaline started to fade. He slid down further into the dirty, opaque water. The ice had already melted. It was inching towards lukewarm now and he still felt too hot. Maybe it was anger. Everything hurt. He'd lost a lot of blood and his ribs felt like they might be cracked. He didn't mind that. It was as familiar as that old Ramones hoodie that Hannah had stolen from him when he was seventeen. It was threadbare and the zipper was missing teeth but she still wore it more often than not. There was something to be said about repetition, after all.

"Finished it." His voice came out raspy, barely there and he knew it would be like that for a few days.

"You did." Hannah's voice floated to his ears from the direction of the doorway. He didn't open his eyes or turn his head to look. He could hear the pride in her voice. "Beat him within an inch... he had no choice but to go through that table."

The way she said it was weird. He hadn't seen Kintaru's fall. He'd just heard the sickening crack as the tables broke on impact. A sigh escaped his lips as he sank lower into the bathtub, feeling every single one of his thirty-five years. Water splashed over the side, soaking into the hotel's bathmat. He didn't care. Didn't even notice. Something didn't sit right with what she'd said and as if she could feel the shift in the atmosphere when he drew in a deep breath, she started talking again.

"It's over, Lex. He lost. That's all that matters." Hannah leaned forward, staring at him, trying to catch his attention before he got lost in his own head. "You set the precedent. People know not to come at you now and expect to get-"

"What the fuck are you even saying?" He was staring at her now, bloodshot eyes open and fixed on her even though the bright lights had halos around them. The fatigue was setting in, making him feel vaguely sick. "What happened?"

She shook her head, refusing to answer and he couldn't help the anger that flared up. He'd thought it was gone, spent in the ring along with the rest of the bodily fluids. Apparently not. "Goddamnit. Tell me." He tasted iron in his mouth, blood from that split in his lip that still hadn't quite healed – it had been torn open again tonight and it was a wonder he hadn't lost any teeth in the process. The whole thing had become tiresome in the worst sort of way. "Han..."

He knew she'd watched it the way she always did – obsessively and analytically. She watched him for tics, for any tells that he might be hurt because she knew he wouldn't let them look at him after a match like this. He couldn't. He had to break himself too much to throw caution to the wind and she knew what that meant, how raw the wounds would be.

"You can watch the replay later. " She said, hoping to buy enough time for the blood to clot, for the wounds to start to close over.

"No." He lifted his hand to his face, rubbing it over his mouth, "I don't think... I... I can't." He didn't articulate the rest. He knew she knew that he didn't want to because it was supposed to be over. This was supposed to be the final match and he'd already made up his mind on the subject. The place had grown toxic, too damn dangerous now that he had two daughters and a wife to protect.

She understood what the silence meant. She knew by the way he was breathing, as if he was about to lose control. She didn't want to see how that would play out, didn't want to be in the same room when he finally exploded. He could tear apart the company better than any of those other wannabes could. Even with Awoken gone, even with Lilith and the rest of the rejects not there to buck the norm, Lex could take the fight to the upper echelon. She believed that more than she knew he did. He'd never seen himself as being at that level. He probably never would and that broke her heart in the worst way. Hannah felt the prickle of tears and tried to blink them away before meeting his gaze. It wasn't fair, the way the universe kept dumping on him over and over again.

"He didn't fall." She said the words softly, haltingly. She knew deep down what he was going to say, how it was going to make him feel. "He was at the top after you went down. He looked like he was going to lose his balance and..." she swallowed hard, inching closer to the tub. His eyes were the only thing she saw, dead black and wounded the way she remembered from their childhood. He was still, quiet as she took a deep breath, "he crossed his arms over his chest and he fell back on his own, Lex. He didn't fall accidentally. He didn't fall because of what you did or because he couldn't hang on. He did it on purpose and I know what you're gonna say. I know, baby, but you can't let him take this from you. You won. That's what goes in the record books and in a few months, nobody will remember how it came about. You know that, baby, right? You know-"

"Take what?" He tore his gaze away from her, unable to stomach that look she was giving him. "My fuckin' dignity? My championships? My... what'm I supposed to be holdin' back, Han? What else do I got left? Nothing. The fucker was right. I win an' what do I get out of it other'n the knowledge of all the time I wasted since Christmas, jumpin' every time some dickbag jerked my chain?"

She didn't reply at first, instead walking over and sitting down on the edge of the tub. Gently, she reached out and rested her hand on his shoulder. She expected him to flinch, to tense up and shy away like he had so many times before.

He didn't. He closed his eyes, sighing softly, feeling the warmth of her fingers as they became spider legs, tickling as they moved around the back of his neck and into his thick, sweat-matted hair. "Seppuku, that's what they call it, right? Fall on the sword, go out with fuckin' honor in a way you choose – we all got these suicidal tendencies. What'm I supposed to do with this? Let him walk away? Let it go? That's what you want me to do, isn't it? You want me to pull the plug? Get the fuck outta this place an' never look back? Go back to a steady job without hazard pay? Get old fixin' cars, pretendin' to be a normal Joe? Is that who you wanna be married to? Some fuckin' nobody nine-to-fiver?"

She winced at his words, at the hatred she heard in his voice that she knew what self-directed. When they were kids, he just wanted to do something good, fix things that were broken. He wanted to fix cars, restore old bikes. Make things shine. Clay had torn it apart, made him think he was only meant to be abused and even though the bastard was dead and buried and feeding the worms, he still couldn't break that cycle. He let the worst ones tear him apart. He let them get in his head because they validated those words that had been hurled at him all his life. The poison was in those memories. "Lex. No," she shook her head, "you'd still be somebody even if you didn't fight. You'd still be Freddie and Allegra's dad. You'd still be the love of my life, my hero. Aren't those things enough?"

"I don't..." he couldn't even finish saying that, couldn't bring himself to lash out even though the anger was so bitter in the back of his throat that he could taste it. "Tell me what to do. Please?" His voice broke on the question and he averted his eyes, ashamed of that weakness. Even in victory, he couldn't be proud. Pride comes before a fall. He couldn't handle another one.

He wanted her to give him the answer, to tell him what he was supposed to do – she knew that. She knew he was trying to use her as the barometer, to gauge morality on the grandest scale but she couldn't bring herself to answer. Either way held damnation. Tell him to let it go, and it would be another necrotic wound, festering under the skin until it poisoned them both. If she told him to go after Kintaru, to end the nonsense on his terms, she'd be encouraging him to walk that dark path. She wanted to see the man destroyed, completely. She wanted to see the smile permanently rubbed off the man who'd called himself Ken Valentine's face.

When she said nothing, Lex let out a derisive snort, shaking his head. "Fucked. It's all fucked."


I never believed in God, in a higher power – to swallow that line is to accept that there was someone up there in the clouds who either didn't give a shit about me or who'd mapped out this entire fucked up seventeen-year-long plotline of hell. I'm not Job. I have no faith to test through trials. I don't believe in fate or predestination. I do, however, firmly believe in free will. I believe in choices and actions that have repercussions.

I believe that people make mistakes.

I believe that the human condition is fatally flawed and that we can allow ourselves to be twisted up, manipulated in the worst ways imaginable. We're not immune. We're not robots and feelings – emotions and all the shit that goes with them – are a goddamned downfall.

I don't believe in the power of prayer. I don't believe that anything changes when a man is down on his knees, begging and pleading with the void for a respite.  Nobody is listening. Silence is tricky, the sheer absence of noise allows you to hear that echo of yourself thrown back – the weak believe it's a sign and desperation makes you too hungry to be rational. You're starved, you're jumping at shadows and tilting at windmills and it's all part of the same song and dance that's coded right into the DNA strand.

We're hopeless.

A desperate man is a strange animal, begging for mercy.

Real men do not grovel, or apologize, or rationalize their responses.

It's fucking pathetic that I can't stop running over the words in my head, making some bullshit silent entreaty. I'll give it all up for one more win. It's only April and I'm already ready to write this year off as a loss. I want one more spin around the sun before these wax wings melt and the inferno of my own damned ego consumes me. Just a few more days, maybe even a few measly hours before I have to go back to my middle-of-the-road existence. That's all I really want – maybe ten more seconds added to my fifteen minutes of fame. I'd do pretty much anything for that. I would give my soul for that (if I actually believed in its existence).

Let's get something straight: I don't have my face buried in a paper bag, huffing the fumes of greatness that's defined me since I came on the scene here in Riot Star Wrestling. No, I spent my time wallowing in the gutter before I found the strength to rise above the shit and I'm pinching myself every ten seconds to make sure this isn't a dream. I'm not delusional. I don't think I'm the greatest thing since individually wrapped American cheese slices or sliced bread. I know that I'm never going to break through, to become the next D or Shane Mitchell or Rob Riot. I'm not insane. I know my limitations. I know I'm already operating on borrowed time...



Hannah sat with her back to the bed, looking out the window. He could smell stale coffee lingering in the air and knew she'd been up for hours. He felt that familiar momentary panic as he looked up at the stucco ceiling and the strange sconces above the bed before the facts slowly seeped into his likely-concussed brain. This was a hotel room. It was 2019 and while he felt like he'd just fought for survival inside the fight circuit's circle, he hadn't. Someone had probably lost a lot of money betting on it either way. At least this time he wouldn't be punished for that. He wouldn't have to answer to Russians who believed he'd sold his soul for the opportunity to fight. He'd traded life to dance with death. He'd been given a second chance when Hannah had come back into his life, when The Circuit had been raided by Interpol and shut down.

Bits and pieces came back to him, snatches of the action. Ladders. Tables. The fall from the top that he'd been lucky not to kill himself with. Kintaru's blood was still there, under his nails that were ragged and bitten down to the quick, too short to cut again. The stain would remain for a while, a reminder of the monster he'd allowed himself to become. It was easy now that the exhaustion was gone, to pretend it was nothing more than a mis-remembered dream.

"You missed a call." Hannah said softly.  "The next show... you've already got a match."

"Well hey. That's good news, right?" He chuckled, still sounding groggy as he pushed himself up into a sitting position, stifling the groan of protest at the twinge in his back and shoulders.  "Another spin round the mulberry bush for old times' sake..." the sarcasm died on his lips as she turned and looked at him. She was pale. Haunted. There were dark circles under her eyes and he realized she'd let him sleep the hours away the way she had when they were little, sitting vigil over the bed as though she was terrified he'd slip away overnight.

He patted the mattress beside himself,  "c'mere. You look like you're gonna fall over." She came, woodenly as if she was already sleepwalking, crawling under the covers and into his arms. He held her close, feeling her breath tickle against his neck.  "You didn't have to stay up," he whispered, kissing the top of her head.

"I couldn't sleep," Hannah murmured,  "seeing you like this, knowing it's going to happen all over again in a few weeks."

He stiffened, his hand shaking slightly where it had been stroking her hair.  "What're you talking about?"

"They said... your next match," she lifted her head, fear battling with exhaustion in her gaze,  "it's a rematch. That's what they said. I thought... when you said..."

"Did they," he tried like hell to sound normal, to swallow back the self-loathing and anger that filled him in an instant, making his skin burn.  "Did they say his name? Are you sure?"

She buried her face in his shoulder, the words coming out muffled as she clung to him. After so many hours walking on eggshells, terrified that she would hurt him if she tried to take the comfort she desperately needed, she couldn't help herself.  "No. They just said it was the rematch... the one you asked for." She paused for a moment, sighing. "Lex. I know you don't want to hear this, but I think you really should let it go. You beat him. Kintaru can-"

"I never asked for a rematch with him." He rasped, closing his eyes as he tried to figure out what the hell was going on. Had someone else done it? Had someone hacked his phone or social media and sent the request, trying to lock him into this purgatory indefinitely? Seemed like something Kintaru would do, force him to play the same damned game over and over for eternity. It was the Finn Whelan bullshit all over again except this time it was his sanity on the line rather than a damned championship belt.

"I can't..." he rubbed his hand over his mouth, holding the words in. He couldn't pull the plug on this. Not when he had nothing else on the back burner, not when he had so much already invested. He kept trying to find the reasoning behind it, to figure out why they'd book something when there was no reason to drag it out. Kintaru had lost clean, even if he'd done it to himself. There hadn't been any interference, no bullshit from those Awoken idiots to mess things up.

"I guess I should have asked better questions," Hannah mumbled, sounding like she was about to drift off.  

When the laughter came, it surprised them both. He knew what they'd meant, what sort of olive branch was being presented here.  "The Anarchy Championship," he said when the sudden explosion of mirth faded. Now that he was able to separate paranoid thoughts spawned by his anxiety, he was remembering the idle comment he'd thrown out backstage after losing the second belt, about how he should've cashed in on the rematch clause for the first before Havok had earned a run at Zepp.  "It's gotta be that."


The underdog rides again. It's a hell of a slogan, ain't it? Sure. And it could apply to either of us. See, that asshole I just beat said something that stuck in my head. Said nobody would know who you are if you hadn't bested me for that title – you think Awoken would've wanted you otherwise? If you were just the guy with a pet cactus, tiptoeing through the fuckin' tulips of mediocrity forever? Nah, man. They want you because of that shine. They want you because of that belt and I have to ask you what happens when I beat you out there? What happens to your new circle jerk of friends when you're just plain old Vinnie again?

I think we both know the answer to that one.

I think that sad reality is what gets to guys like you and me. Yeah, that's right.

I'm fallen. From grace, out of favor. You will be soon enough, banished from your new group, too – I gotta wonder how clean this match is gonna really be with Awoken watching. The second they see you in trouble, they'll come out and jump me for fun. We both know it so there's no use pussyfooting around the subject. I've been here before, on the back-foot. Jesus, seems like I've spent half my damn career here with my back against the wall – defensive posture.

Awoken has a stake in this, sure.

I wonder if my other thorn will be back, ready to be a prick and see how much blood can be drawn. That motherfucker wanted to burn me down but I survived. Funny how that goes. You lose the ones where the hardware is on the line, and win the one that doesn't really benefit you.

That's what I get for losing sight of the bigger picture.

No bones against you. Nothing bad to say. You were the better man at the right place and right time. The cool thing about mistakes is that you can either let them define you, or you can learn from them. You think I made it this far in the business by running away, doing the scalded dog trip? No. I'm too stubborn for that.

So now you're gonna learn the truth about me – all of you are. You're gonna get some firsthand experience about the lost years of my life that I don't talk much about. I understand pain and loss more than you might think. I said I never wanted belts, never coveted the accolades because I know what comes with it. The target on the back. The asshole who wants to come at you and make a name for themselves.

You get up there in the limelight and the vultures see you as eventual dead meat. They smell the wax melting, the feathers burning – Icarus wasn't meant to fly and the universe corrected that mistake with a spectacular crash and burn. Are you picking up what I'm putting down? I don't want to insult you. I don't want to make light of your win, of this championship reign or the new friends it's brought you. I don't want to be the one to shatter your dreams. I hate being that guy but someone has to pull you back to reality, Vinnie. This isn't how it ends. For either of us.

A part of me hopes you find this insulting. I actually crave your anger right now. I want your hatred because that's as soothing to me as a nice cool breeze and a back rub. I want you to make me bleed and I want you to talk about the ways you're gonna do it. That makes sense. That's what I expect, what this damned face of mine has cultivated over the years. You want to hit me. You want to make me bleed. Anger sustains me – mine or yours – doesn't matter. I know you're going to hear what you want to hear and see what you want to see. I get that. I expect it and I think a good number of you were taking my silence for the urge to slink out the back door, disappear forever.

Win or lose.

I could tell you that it's not true, but you won't believe me. People are wont to think whatever suits their own agenda. So instead I'm sitting here stitching together these broken thoughts into some cobbled-together monster like Victor Frankenstein. And I know that every last one will be dropping into a pile that ends up being weighed against me as some form of judgment I don't quite understand.

If I'm a monster, then I'm a willing one.

I know that I'm just an ordinary guy – fallible and fragile. I bleed. I break. Sometimes I forget that little truth, mostly when I'm caught in the moment with the flashbulbs popping. I really wish I were immortal – this would be so much easier then. I'd have so much more time to get this shit right.

No matter how far you go, you can't run from the truth and you can't run from yourself. Best you can do is turn and face that demon, and let it bite your fucking face off. Go down fighting for what you want – what you need. Never let them take it from you. Find a cause. Crash and burn, motherfucker. Rise up from the ashes. Do it like you were born to. Do it like you fucking mean it. 

I do. You better realize that. I'm serious and you have something of mine that I mean to take back, same way I took back the respect that too many of you fuckers've tried to steal from me. You don't steal fire from the gods, Vinnie. At least not and live to have a happy ending afterwards. Sorry. Bitter regrets are annoying-as-fuck and I'm sick to death of trying to fill silences with speculation. I was never really one for subtleties. There will be blood spilled, I know that's what your new little 'friends' are planning to do to ensure you don't lose your little trinket. I'm fine with that. I expect it and I'm not afraid. The odds are in my favor on this. I spent more than a year on The Circuit, competing in fights where my actual life was on the line. So many times I staggered out into the dark nights across the world with money in my pockets and blood on my clothes that wasn't mine. I can do this. I can survive whatever you bring to the dance.

This is why I'm here. Why I'm still alive. I'm here to spite you. To remind you of all the awful things you've done wrong. I am your mistakes, magnified. There's a Bad Religion song that starts with the line, 'if I'm a monster, I am a willing one'. I see that now. I have allowed this to happen and you know what? I embrace it. I do. 

Kintaru's cheap shots reminded me of my time in Vegas, reminded me of that other goddamned joke of a company that came after. Those places tried to grind me out like a cigarette butt. They tried to strip me of joy and dignity; they tried to make me think I was unworthy of respect. They failed. Those dark days served as a stepping stone to greatness and I know now that coming here wasn't my redemption. Racking up that win streak wasn't the best thing and neither was picking up two championships in a row. Survival is the best revenge. I've been sayin' that in so many ways for so long that it's kinda become my mantra. It bears repeating here.

I was never meant to be a legacy here. I'm a product of chaos and I know now that it was always more than wins or losses. It was getting up at the end of it all that mattered. It was making a choice to BE THE MAN, rather than be BEATEN DOWN AGAIN. I control my reactions. This is my story, Vinnie. You're just a footnote in a chapter that wasn't really all that interesting. 

I am a willing monster. The violence, the hatred and horror and anger created me and it's time for the tables to turn. It's high time I embrace that truth and destroy my maker.