THIRTY-ONE: Pendulums & Guillotines [WARPED]

The car had been sitting in the drive for ten minutes but he still felt like he was in motion. A tender spot on the back of his head, to the left of his ear, felt like it had its own heartbeat – a reminder that he wasn't untouchable. He'd lost a title match in Chasing Glory Wrestling on Friday. That wasn't the worst of it. No, of course not. To add insult to injury, Clarissa Claire had shown up afterwards, when he was distracted and already battered to waffle him over the head with a chair. He should have expected it. He'd dropped her name too many times for her to resist – much the same way Szalinski had done. Graham Clausen had been summoned but it had been Graham Baker who'd answered the call.

The weekend had been a bittersweet rollercoaster ride and a part of him was resistant to even feeling good about last night's victory. Climbing the ladder in Warped held far more appeal than he wanted to admit. There was history there, names and a level of talent he hadn't shared a ring with in the entirety of his career. It wasn't just the exhaustion that kept him here, it was the realization that he was going to have to face unexpected fallout once he crossed the threshold.

Charity had watched the match with Kuntz. It wasn't that lie of omission that haunted him, either. It was knowing that she was already in a delicate frame of mind and he'd just willfully pushed her right off down the rabbit hole. Her sister had called him the night before, telling him that Charity had a panic attack, that she'd been near hysterical. He bowed his head, forehead touching the steering wheel and he felt the aches and pains throbbing through his old bones, making him feel a little too much as if he'd been beaten into submission. "Motherpusbucket," he growled, shaking his head before reaching up to rub his face, wincing when his fingers grazed his eye socket. It still hurt. His vision was still a little hazy in that eye and that more than any cosmetic reason was why he'd gone back to wearing the purple-tinted Ray Bans even indoors. Nobody needed to know they were prescription. Nobody needed to know that he needed them to see properly.

He kept meaning to get it checked out but every time he picked up the phone with the intention to make the appointment, he balked. Things were going well, looking up. The last thing he wanted to do was have that death sentence thrown down by some asshole with a medical degree, declaring him unfit to compete.

"Goan wit' yersel'," he muttered, exhaustion leaving his accent unchecked, thicker than usual. He let his hand fall back to his lap, reflexively wiping away the clammy sweat on his palm. He needed a shower, badly. Couldn't remember if he'd taken one after the match, thought maybe he had because he'd stink far worse if he hadn't. Someone on the flight would have complained, even though there was nobody in the seat next to him. Thinking about the simple things pulled him back from the brink of the abyss and he started drifting to an inventory of the fridge. Was there any beer left? Had he finished off the last of the whiskey before he'd gone? It had only been a few days, but it felt infinitely longer and his memory felt as hazy as the heat ripples rising off the driveway around him.

He needed a shower. First, though, he needed something to drink. Maybe several somethings because the thought of engaging her in this state held little appeal. Forcing himself into motion, he finally opened the door, blasted with the oven-hot air of mid-morning Las Vegas. Immediately, he set the bag on the hood of the car and leaned forward, pulling off the sweat-soaked t-shirt. There was a breeze like the breath of Satan himself but at least it wasn't humid. A tired smile crossed his lips as he stepped in from the garage to the blessed air-conditioned sanctity of his home and he felt some of the tension bleed away. Wadding the soiled cotton between his hands, he lobbed it overhand into the hamper just inside the door. The world had changed in strange ways and he was still struggling to adapt to the changes in his ritual.

His fingers were stiff so he flexed them, taking a few tentative steps into the silence. He wanted to call out, to make his presence known but he kept his mouth shut, feeling like he did when he walked down the ramp with his music blaring. Keyed-up and twitchy, trying to stay off the backfoot.

His pulse throbbed in his ears, that tinny ringing back and he wondered if it was ever going to go away – maybe this was his reality now. Every week something else was going to fall off until he'd have to make that tough choice whether it was worth fixing or just scrapping the whole thing. His life, his career, reduced to a shitty metaphor and all he could think about was that he'd lasted another week, another ten thousand plus minutes wasted on the road towards death. He felt like the sand was rushing through the bottom half of the hourglass, as if he needed to make as many bookings fit into the time he had left. He knew it was only a matter of time before the balance shifted and he tumbled off down the other side into nothing again. He was just trying to climb high enough to stave it off a little longer, knowing in the end it would just amount to a longer and more painful fall.



Careful what you wish for. The old warning, passed down by generations as if hindsight is any sort of wisdom to applaud. Madman Szalinski wished for a Graham, lost the match to me and now I've got Baker in the next round. Not that it was orchestrated by the myriad shouts from the rooftops, mind you. It happened serendipitous-like, the way the brackets fell and our hero of the hour, the Guillotine... the Aviator... whatever name he's taken on this week, emerged victorious.

I could prance and preen, pretend I'm tickled pink because he came out to watch the action starring yours truly, but I'm not that foolish. I feel old right now; old, halfway broken and nearly used up – this fuckin' squashed tube of toothpaste that nobody wants to throw away. Tell yourself there's still a little bit left in there. Still a bit more if you apply a little pressure, squeeze in the right spot. Ah, see. There we go. A little dab'll do ya.

I lie to myself because it's easy to feel like I've done something good. My first match in a legendary company was a rousing success, after all. I beat Madman Szalinski and the fella hasn't said peep on social media in what seems like days. Do I take credit for that? Can I? Not sure I want to tread those halls. Not now. 

The silence holds too many secrets and I'm still learning the lay of the land, as it were. It's never a good time to revel in the demise of others though, is it? I know that I've not been promoted whatsoever. Haven't been elevated to god-like status yet, but I can pretend now. My name is out there. On more lips than before. I can close my eyes and still hear the roar of the crowd. I can still feel the shameful burn of pride and it's hard for me to shake it now. Feels too good. Zero to hero... the absolute nobody comes in at the last moment and takes the business by storm. Makes for a good headline, no? Am sure Graham Baker has many championships to his name, many accolades to trot out and reminisce over. Doesn't take some computer genius to suss that out. Read a little bit through social media and a few gems, find out that he's chasing glory in a few other places. I'd say something about eggs in baskets but I'm guilty of the same. This, though? Warped is the primary focus. The other ones... they're great, don't get me wrong. They're important. I just want this to happen a little bit more. I want to beat Graham Baker, this fella who's nearly half my age. I want to go on to face the winner between Simmonds and PKA. I don't care about that masked fuck or Dred-King. My dream would be a three-way final between myself, Vachon and Simmonds.

It's a little funny, thinking of myself as a nobody even after all this time. Is that what I am? An untested joke? A piss-poor punchline about getting too old for this shit and not being able to let go? Been feeling like that for the better part of a week. Oh, sure. There's still some left in the tank. Give me a squeeze and I'll perform. So, I lie to myself, and say this is nothing more than the sum of all my fears, come to haunt me like a bit of undigested beef still stuck in my craw. It's more than that, of course. It's pride and avarice, the worst kind of hubris and I don't want to become another joke like the man I defeated in the first round. I don't want people pointing and laughing when I'm bleeding out on the floor in a pile of shattered ego and splintered misconceptions about my place in this world.

I know I belong. This is my ring as much as it is theirs. I can stake that claim. I have earned it, for fuck's sake. I paid my dues a thousandfold over the years.

Can almost feel it rising off me like heatwaves off summer blacktop. The pride won't go, won't let me fall back down into the gutter. It wants more of the spotlight. It wants the shine, wants to fill me back up with something pure and holy and fuckin' magical; I'm happy to embrace it because it won't let me roll over and show the white underbelly. Give it another squeeze. Ah, see? There's still plenty left. We'll give 'er another go, aye? Why the fuck not?

My fears swing like a pendulum, like a sharpened thing ready to take my head off with the next pass. It's a damned guillotine, one I've fashioned myself through cowardice. There's nothing Baker can do to me that hasn't already been done. I know this for a fact. I just need to see it through.

The fight – MY FIGHT – is far from over.