003 (Courage) [PCW]

FAT MOE'S WAS THE NAME OF THE DIVE, the logo on the sign featuring a bloated cartoon version of Moe Szyslak from The Simpsons— copyright be damned. At this hour, the bar was nearly deserted, only a few old men lingered at the front, playing pool and laughing loudly, their words lost under the noise of the piped-in top 40's radio, and the random squeak of the fans turning lazily overhead. The air was chilly, but Larry Gowan was sweating, and it didn't take a genius to figure out why. It wasn't really warm out at least as far as summers in Texas went— he was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt even though he'd taken to wearing a leather bracelet around his wrist that hid the scars. It was easier to camouflage than to let people see them and wonder. He was sick to death of those looks of pity. He wore layers at all times now; he'd even changed his ring attire. He was sick of being the butt of EVERY joke.

Sweat trickled down his back, making the shirt stick to his skin but he was oblivious. His eyes were fixed on one thing and one thing only: a bottle of beer. Budweiser. Ice cold.

More than once, he found his hand reaching towards that escape, and just as quickly forced himself to move away. His fingers drummed on the table, playing along with the song, but he didn't notice. He'd finally done it, and the victory left a bitter taste in his mouth. How right, or even fair was it for him to celebrate the win when his brother, who had deserved to wear this gold more than him, was in the ground? This was supposed to be his celebration— the homecoming to the local bar that would end with someone calling him a cab and falling into bed to sleep it off. Instead he was here alone.

There was no glory to be had in this victory.

Even dedicating the match to Shawn's memory had felt like some sort of betrayal, as if he was turning the loss of his half-brother into some sort of marketing ploy.

His mouth was so damned dry. Just one drink wouldn't hurt.

He knew what they said in the locker room. Gossip. He was a drunk— a maladjusted weirdo who shunned the ring rats— likely a faggot. He didn't care what they thought. He knew precisely what he was, if not who he was. The details could be sorted out later; he still wasn't sure what he had become. A killer? Every time he tried to think about what had happened in that dark alley, his mind recoiled. It was easier to just go through the motions, which meant pouring himself wholly into the entire regime of training, media appearances and everything else that went with being a main event player. It helped that he was pleasant— people liked interviewing him.

Show me the way, Tommy Shaw's voice rang out over the din, cutting right through him.

He needed guidance— he needed Shawn. He didn't know who to trust anymore, not even himself.

He shifted his weight in the uncomfortable chair, reaching out again with his free hand, this time letting it close over the neck of the icy bottle. He could feel the weight of the gold around his waist, although he had left it back at the hotel. It was worse than the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he felt saddled with guilt.

"Drink up, Champ!" The hand that slapped him on the back was a surprise, but the face that followed wasn't. Dave "Karaoke Guy" Burrows, the former NAWF star stood there, sporting a wide grin. Pyro and Enigma stood behind him— 3 of WCWF's finest jobbers come to pay their respects.

Pyro smirked, setting a shot of black sambucca on the bar in front of Gowan. "You haven't forgotten the little guys, have you?"

"Nah," he gestured for them to join him, "I'd never forget you guys. You're the foundation—"

"How's it feel to be on top?" Dave asked, plopping down on the stool beside his.

Gowan looked down at the bartop, and then back at Dave, his misery evident in his eyes. "Shitty, Dave."

"I don't get you... isn't this what you always wanted? Wasn't this your dream? You should be on cloud nine... not sitting here, in this shithole, with a face longer than a horse's."

Gowan shrugged, tightening his grip around the bottle. The muscles in his arms and chest tensed, betraying the subtle changes, making the leather around his wrist creak. "You know how it is, Dave... I like to rain on parades, especially my own."

"Cut the crap, Larry. This ain't like you... what happened to that dude who always had some reason to smile... the guy who didn't care if things went wrong 'cause there's always a silver lining somewhere? What pod did they replace you with, Larry...? I don't know you anymore, man."

Gowan snorted, "watching everyone you love die has a way of doing that."

"Aw hell, man. It wasn't your fault—"

"Wasn't it?" He finally lifted the bottle, slowly bringing it towards his lips. "Listen, there's no joy in this, okay?"

"We're sorry about Shawn," Enigma muttered, patting him on the shoulder. "All of us are, Larry—"

"Don't want your pity."

Dave let out a low whistle, and the sparkle faded from his green eyes. "Heavy stuff, man... don't bring me down. I have to do karaoke tonight, and they aren't gonna have any fun if the karaoke dude is all crying an' shit."

"I don't want to talk about it," Gowan paused, taking a small sip of the beer, grimacing in distaste after swallowing. He sat there for a few seconds, and then spoke again, his voice seeming strained. "God, that tastes like shit!"

The expletive passing his lips made all three jobbers exchange a look. "Listen, Larry... maybe—"

"I'm fine."

"Sure, man," Pyro said quickly, "you've never looked better... that match, was easily a contender for match of the year! You took everything Duke had to throw at you and outlasted him... that counts for a hell of a lot more than anything else. I mean, dude... you beat Nathanial DUKE! How many others can say that... besides Dane Rennier. I don't think there's—"

Gowan's head whipped around, his eyes narrowing. "Do. Not. EVER. Compare. Me. To. Dane." A finger poked at Pyro to emphasize each word. "Duke did not job to me... Dane's win was a fluke... Duke was distracted... his daughter had been hurt... hell, that shouldn't have even counted. I earned my win... unlike that worthless little ass-kisser!"

Pyro took a step back, shaking his head. "Hey, man, chill. I didn't mean anything by it—"

"...you even mentioning me in the same sentence, frankly, makes me more nauseous than this camel piss they call beer in these parts. Listen, Dave... I forgave him... doesn't mean I forgot what he did. And just because I said something I felt more obligated to say, than actually meant, doesn't mean that... I'm going to play nice with him. He screwed over the Knights. He... had the outright audacity... to not trust... ME. That whole mix-up over his title shot was over a year and a half ago. I was never less than loyal to him... and he didn't have the balls to stab me in the front... at least that way I would have seen it coming. I am nothing like Dane Rennier, and as far as I know, the only person to ever actually beat Duke clean was Ray. That was back in 2001... might as well have been a million years ago. Damn, I miss him..."

"Who? Shawn?"

Gowan took another hesitant sip of the beer, and then used the icy bottle to sluice the sweat from his brow. "Well, yeah... but I miss Ray a lot more... I mean, Shawn was my brother, but a lot of times, it was like it was in name only.... There was a long time there, where Shawn hated me... he blamed me for a lot of things... and I guess he had a right to. I lied to him. I can never make that up now... but Raymond, was like my best friend and my father— just this awesome dude I could look up to. He was always there, and he always had the right thing to say. He was there for me, through it all... and now he's... gone. Like Shawn. I don't like being alone, Dave..."

Dave nodded solemnly. "We're here for you, man. Whatever you need."


An open letter to Rachel Ellsworth:

We've known each other for a long time, at least as far as wrestling is concerned. It's been a few years and I can still remember that time we met in Natalie's kitchen, surrounded by that warm and homey smell of cookies in the oven. I remember that quick wit and that easy smile and I knew that we were going to be friends. You always seemed to have a better handle on the celebrity trip that goes with this business than I did.

I'm sure you remember my spectacular meltdown when the IWF blew the details of my personal life on air, effectively forcing me to finally step out of the closet. Was that really more than two years ago? It seems so much longer than that. I remember that visit you paid to me, where you convinced me to be myself for the first time in my life.

I owe you thanks for that.

You gave me far more courage with that simple knowing look and capricious smile than anything else ever has. It's because of that moment that I'm having a hard time approaching this match mentally right now. See, on many levels, I want to face you just to see what happens. I want to test myself against you. But with all the nonsense that's happened over the last week, I find myself back in that place I don't want to be.

There's a glass in my hand and it's empty. I'm not sure how that happened.

I need you, Rachel. I need you to give me another wake-up call. I need you to look into my soul and tell me what's broken. I want you to take this anger from me.

I want to find my smile again.

I've been thinking a lot about Shawn lately. I don't want to talk about him to these people, but he's always about to come spilling from my lips and I know it won't do me any good to dwell on the things that happened so many years ago. There's nothing to be gained by walking that road again. I know it— I know you understand— don't want to wear out his memory by going there too often. I keep seeing him in crowds. I keep seeing the back of his head in crowds. I keep thinking that it's 2004 and I'm going off to face Duke for the World Championship. That already happened. I won. I remember that, but sometimes it's like that's faded like a dream. Maybe it didn't really happen. Maybe Shawn is still out there, fucking with me like Andy Kaufman having the last laugh on the world. I don't know, Rachel. I don't even know why I'm writing this to you. I can't tell Chauncy. I can't tell Brad or Lex or anyone else because they'll just write it off as crazy old Larry with his hallucinations and his endless string of head injuries.

My head is fine. I promise. So I have to ask you... do you believe in ghosts? Or demons?

Am I cracking up?

I don't even know.

I keep seeing him on that gurney. I keep seeing that bloody sheet and no amount of booze can wash that image from my head. Knock it out for me, will you? I'm scared, Rachel. Do you ever get so scared you can't even think straight?

You probably don't.

I'm worried I'm headed for a nervous breakdown. I'm begging you. Help me, please?

I'm counting on you.