THIRTY: Fuck Hope [WARPED]

(backstage)

The cigarette between Bruce McLeod's fingers had burned down to the filter and put itself out, that perfect column of ash dangling precariously, impossibly. His throat burned, raw from the single inhale he'd managed to choke on – his first since going cold-turkey in April. The filter was covered in blood. So were his hands and his arms. His vision was clouded with a haze of red and it wasn't the tunnel vision of anger – it was the same coppery ochre that was smeared all over him, still leaking from the deepest cuts on his face and neck. There was a pile of soiled gauze, halfway slithering to the floor like a snake's cast-off skin and he couldn't bring himself to move.

"Sonuvabitch!"

It was more a venomous hiss than anything, the words all running together into one and it fell over him like white noise, easily dismissed along with the comings and goings of the other talent and staff – there may have been medical personnel in here. It was all a blur. There had been a bright light that had left his head aching. He wasn't sure if that was before he'd left the ringside area or after. He didn't have much recollection beyond the clanging of the barbed wire bat that mangled his face and bashed his skull into the steel steps.

He was probably concussed.

It wouldn't be the first time. It wouldn't even be the hundredth time. He'd made most of his money in the business by putting his body on the line in the most ludicrous and wholly forgettable series of events. He'd never really set out to be a deathmatch wrestler. That was never the sort of thing anyone with half a brain and an ounce of sanity aspired to, after all. Everyone wanted to be a golden boy. An idol on a pedestal. Few wanted to break a sweat, let alone break bones or bleed the hard way. He'd done the latter so many times it was second nature and a part of him expected the tides to turn. Dues had been paid a hundredfold. He was still toiling for a scrap of respect. Winning that Triad Challenge, beating the legendary Rottentreats had opened no doors and he realized the folly far too late.

"Stupid asshole."

Louder this time, those words still didn't even register past the haze and the afterburn of spent adrenaline ringing in his ears. The venom sailed over his head and he didn't look, didn't even blink as the slender girl with the strawberry blonde hair wove her way through the wreckage of the room to arrive in his narrow field of vision.

"What the hell were-"

Her voice was full of outrage, too damned loud and he winced, twitching as he inclined his head a fraction of an inch. The column of ash fell. Gravity finally won out and the last of the blood-soaked material pooled on the floor, ashes raining down on it like nuclear winter. It all happened in an instant, a split second for all of it and it felt like a thousand years before he lifted his head and locked eyes with his own daughter. It all snapped into focus in an instant. He was backstage at the Christ Centred Wrestling show. He'd just been tenderised in what was called a Devil's Funhouse match – it was a glorified cage full of weapons. There was nothing fun about it.

"Da? Oh Jesus."

"He's not here." The joke had seemed funny inside his head, the quip coming out all sorts of backwards and wrong when the words passed his cracked lips.

"Did they check you?" Her hands were like ice shards, stabbing with pain as she pushed his hair out of his face, seeing the worst of the damage those lank and blood-matted strands had been hiding. His eye socket was caked with blood, lashes gummed together with it. "Da? Say something. You…" her voice broke as she stared at him.

"Goan," his tongue felt thick, his brogue worse than usual as he tried to make sense of where he was, let alone why his daughter was yelling at him. His mouth tasted like an old penny, tainted and metallic but he couldn't muster up enough saliva to do anything about it. He remembered now that Siobahn had asked to come along because her mother wasn't quite up to travel yet after the birth of the twins and she hadn't wanted her father to go alone. She'd wanted to help out with her new brother and sister – they were being released from the hospital tomorrow. Maybe today. He wasn't quite sure about the time anymore. Everything felt slippery around the edges, like it was dodging when he tried to focus.

"Da?"

He blinked. His fingers twitched and the scorched filter fell to the floor with the rest of the soiled trash. "Out with it, then."

"What the hell was that?" Her fear had turned to outrage, her cheeks flaming red in her pale face as she stared at him, hands on her hips. "That sicko was posting about how he wanted to fuck me, how he wanted to do things to Mom and you… you just egged him on for weeks and then you go out there today and he tries to actually kill you?! I thought it was just… what do they call it? A shoot?"

At least she wasn't shouting. No. Her voice was shaking, her whole body was vibrating with the force of her emotion but she was barely speaking above a hoarse whisper. He could hear her just fine now that the seashell roar in his ears had died down a little. "Siobah-"

"Don't," she snapped, cutting him off. "There isn't a single thing you can say right now that will explain what the fuck that even was. It sure didn't look like wrestling to me. That looked like…" she shuddered, looking like she wanted to bolt from the room and find someplace to hide. Either that or she was going to puke her guts out. Maybe both.

"Sam," he never, ever called her that. Her mother did. Her friends did. She'd started calling herself that when she was old enough to spell her name and was sick of people getting it wrong. "Look at me. Please?"

He held out his hand, beseeching. It was shaking. His nails were cracked and filthy and the calluses were stained crimson with dried blood.

"That's not wrestling." Her eyes – so much like her mother's, he realised – were swimming with tears. She was too stubborn to blink, to let them fall. "You know it, too. So, say it. Fuckin' say it."

He closed his eyes, taking a breath. He wanted to deny it, to tell her that what he'd just done out there, the way he'd degraded and debased himself on social media for weeks was worth it but the truth was far less glamorous. He was still chasing glory, still looking for that one moment that would shine above all others – he wanted to have that one big win, that one that meant everything. Being maimed by Jacob Kuntz was never going to be that pinnacle. He knew it, just like he'd known the moment he'd actually managed to win the opportunity that it wasn't going to happen.

"Say it." Her cold fingers poked into his chest, making the pain flare up again.

"It's not that easy," he replied on the heels of a shallow breath. "Am not yer husband… the fuckin' legendary Smitty Jones, World Champion twenty times over. Don't have the world fallin' at me feet. This is what I can get, Possum. This is who'll have me."

"Bullshit." It was a slap this time, to his shoulder, hard enough to rock him. "Stop it. Stop lying!"

There were other places. He'd only jumped at this one because he'd thought it would be safe, he'd though the name meant it would be good and wholesome – he didn't realize it was anything but until the first event had been booked in Saudi Arabia and then it was too late to pull out. He'd already made the obligations and Warped still hadn't finalized its return. His plate had gone from empty to far too full in the span of what seemed like days and he had no excuse for putting his body on the line like this when he was supposed to be in a tag match with Rooster and Chrysalis in a little over a week. He'd be lucky to be cleared for that match, provided he saw an actual doctor.

His eyes opened, bloodshot and dead black when they locked on hers. He pulled in a whistling breath through his nose, almost daring her to hit him again. He saw her fists clenching. Saw her gritted teeth. Recognized himself in her posture and it cut right through him in the worst way. "Gonna need ya tae tell 'er… don't watch it."

"Who?" Her brow furrowed as she tried to follow the shift in conversational track. "You mean mom?"

"Aye." He knew there would be a delay like last time. It would be a couple days before it aired online – he could hope to buy some time and with the twins coming home, it could be a distraction. The last thing he wanted was for his wife to know just how close he'd come to actually perishing out there tonight.

"Sure. I'll do that." The way she said it made it clear that she was about to try and strike a bargain. "If you promise me this is the last time you do something so damned crazy."

"I can't-"

"You can. You just don't want to and I think that's pretty shitty. Mom needs you. The twins need you." She exhaled sharply and shook her head, sniffling back those tears. "Hell… I need you, Da."

He didn't realize he'd closed his eyes, that he was drifting again until he felt her pressing against him, felt her arms around him and her warm tears on his chest. "Hush, now." He murmured, holding his daughter close as she let all the fear and anger go. "Am right here. Not goin' anywhere. Not today. Not any time soon. Promise-"

"Promise me that you're done with this." The words were muffled against his chest but he heard them just fine.

"Cross my heart. Hope…" the words caught when he felt her tense and he changed the old saying, "hope not tae die."

At the end of the day, wasn't that the best hope of all?



It's funny how many people in this industry think they've got you all sussed out after ten minutes of research online. Sure, a few of my more memorable runs can be found with a little digging but does a listing of wins and losses, my height, weight and age tell you anything you can actually use between the ropes? You don't need to know my name (Bruce), to know where I was born (Glasgow) or any of that other biographical nonsense. Twenty-two years in this business – off and on, mind you. I've never done an introduction before. Isn't that wild?

Oh sure, have had plenty microphones thrust in my face at the most inopportune times but I've never had the freedom to choose how this comes about. I suppose that speaks volumes to the state of the past employers – maybe more to the way I was perceived. Aye, don't get me wrong. I've no quibbles about any of the things that came to pass on the bumpy road that led me to WARPED. The truth is, this company was on my radar years ago. I watched my brother in law Lex Collins take part in an event here. I was a follower of the career of the Clown Prince hisself from start to finish. That's not sycophancy. That's the god's honest truth – I still watch some of his old matches for inspiration.

A part of me wonders if my application would have even been considered if I hadn't gone the distance against the WARPED LEGEND hisself, MR. ROTTENTREATS in that Triad Challenge. Suppose that's always gonna linger in the back of my mind going forward, if that single moment of glory in my career is going to be the pinnacle or the stepping stone. Far too late into this business to think about something like that, though. Far too late to try and change stripes or learn new tricks, aye?

Speaking of infamy, we've a wonderful little puzzle on our hands. We've got the fella who's never done an introduction against the man who doesn't need one. Of course, am on about MADMAN SZALINSKI. Is there anyone more polarizing in this business these days? If there is, the name eludes me. Love him or hate him, can't deny that his name is on people's lips. Not sure if I envy that. Not sure I'd ever want to be that well-known, to be fair.

I don't do introductions. You want to know me, pay attention. Go back and watch the Triad Challenge. Watch me endure. Watch this fella build something bigger, something better. Refuse to accept that beating a legend and a young upstart was the highest point of my career. Refuse to stop chasing the glory that I've been doing for the last year. It's closer now. So close I can taste it and the fact that I was never in this position before doesn't mean that I'm lazy or some talentless piece of shyte. It means I was overlooked. I was a cog in the machine, doing the hard work but eventually machines break down. Those places I worked in the past weren't worth much salt. Nobody ever wanted to hear from this fella before, at least not for more than a little sound bite that would end up edited out later.

I understand all too well the point of the match I've been given. Am quite sure that MADMAN will stay true to his namesake, will rant and rail and shout incoherencies unto the heavens because he wasn't given GRAHAM CLAUSON for this very first show. Why would they shoot their wad like that? Jesus Christ, fella. Even I know that something like that needs a little romancing, first. A slow build. A little foreplay – makes the release that much sweeter.

I want to beat him. More than that, I want to see gold around my waist before this year is out and I don't think that's an absurd statement to make. I've proven I can stand with the man who carried WARPED on his shoulders through the toughest times. I have proven I can outlast someone half my age, after wrestling in a tag match less than an hour before.

SZALINSKI has a reputation. Once upon a time, he was revered. He was perhaps even feared, just a little. That ship sailed quite a long time ago and now we're left with an empty shell, a shadow of the fella who was once a force to be reckoned with. I'm not blind. Am not ignorant. I know precisely what I'm in for when that bell rings and I know that he won't be prepared for what I'm bringing to the table.

I'm good, fella. Quantify that one a little further – am better. I've been at this longer than you, have far less enemies. Twenty-two years in, and still the underdog. I wonder if you envy that, just a little? The expectations hanging over my head are lower. The bar easier to reach and maybe looking at me is a bit like looking into a fun-house mirror, seeing the truth thrown back all distorted-like. You could have kept your gob shut. Could have put in the work without a cannonball into every pond to make the biggest mess, the biggest splash. Where do you go from there, hmm? How can you possibly improve?

I'm what you wish you could be. It sounds like a boast, but it isn't. It's a fact. Some folks have begun to respect me. My name is out there and the offers are pouring in. I have had to turn things down, have had to make hard choices lately. Is anyone chasing you, fella?

I feel sorry for you, MADMAN.

Even in the days when I was living paycheck to paycheck, banking everything on if I was gonna get that call to come back and fill the bottom end of a card, I wasn't gambling. This isn't about how well you can play the role – we all know you can walk the walk and talk the talk. I don't give two shits about the game you think you've mastered.

I don't care about the pay, even though it's far more than I've ever earned in the past. There were nights I didn't even break even, ones I did this for free. Looks stupid to even admit, doesn't it? Still doesn't diminish the truth here. I love this.

There's a certain level of madness in that, I think. I look at this like a hunter. I'm going after the weak spot. I'm gunning for your legs, your shoulder, whatever I can to break you down. I'm looking to put the chink in that armor. I wanna ensure you don't make it to the next round, make sure you slink out the door with your tail betwixt your legs and the world at large is denied that blow-out you want so badly to have with CLAUSON. It's not spite. It's something simpler than that. Those who can, do. Those who can't? Aye, they become teachers. And maybe that's my role here. Maybe that's why I was chosen for this match. Teach you the error of your ways. Learn you a thing or two about when you should be running that mouth of yours. If you don't go out there wanting to win, you're cheating yourself. If you don't respect yourself and your opponent enough to try, you're a fool.

Aw shit, there's no fun in explaining that one. You'll see, fella. The whole world will, to be fair. The Triad Challenge wasn't a fluke. The fires are lit and there's no stopping them now. This isn't about hoping to survive another day, going through the motions of some empty bullshit existence. This is about making the most of the time I have left. Fuck hope. This is about desire. This is about taking the shine off arseholes who never deserved it in the first place. This is about making waves without all the mess, rocking the boat until I've earned my sea legs, 'til am the captain on the ship of fools as the last one left standing.

Let's turn the page. Write a new story, aye?

So where do we go from here?

Ah yes, the introduction. Suppose I forgot all about that, didn't I? Hello, lovelies.

My name is BRUCE MCLEOD.

Remember it well, fellas. It's gonna look damned fine next to the words WARPED WORLD CHAMPION. Just you wait and see.