THIRTY-NINE: ignis aurum probat [AGW]

I feel this strange sort of ennui tonight. To be fair, it's been building exponentially over the last few weeks until it's dragging me down worse than the fatigue after a long and intense workout in the heat. I'm not tired. I'm not unwell. My temperature was checked, my sinus cavities tested and brain tickled the moment I landed in Edmonton for a match in another company. I'm fine – right as rain.

There's just this mental maelstrom that drains everything away until I am stuck in this bullshit limbo, reliving the byganes. Oh aye. Been mired like this for weeks. I'd call it depression if it were that simple but we both know it's not just like we both know why you see fit to paint me in the colours of the interloper. The things the world at large supposes they know about me is astonishing.

Geriatric. This one is a daily occurrence and the creativity surrounding it really astonishes me. I've been hit with such zingers as "grandpa" and "father time" as well as threats to "break my hip". Earth-shaking stuff. True genius lies in repeating the same party line and pretending you've got a fresh take even though so many others've been here already that the grass has been trodden down to barren dirt – scorched earth.

Impotent, despite the obvious evidence to the contrary as my wife gave birth to twins nearly four months ago. Little blue pills and blue balls – I've heard better banter from thirteen-year-olds and the functionally impaired AJ Jenkynxks or however in the fuck that's spelled.

Granted, the field where my fucks grew is barren. Nothing left here. Nothing fertile. No seeds are gonna germinate, much less grow. But we go through the motions, don't we? Of course. Quantity is the thought of the day. Bury under a deluge of wasted words, empty threats without an ounce of charisma to back them up. I'm fixated on the stupidest shit like my brain keeps downshifting into first gear. I can feel the brain cells burning up as my thoughts redline and the car metaphor smashes into the wall of pretentiousness with a level of flair you're obviously used to. Too many words, fella. That's the worst you can do because the more that come tumbling from that gaping geggy of yours remove all doubt in regards to your intelligence (or lack thereof).

All these stories, all these folks who take one look at my photos and write me off – don't know the first thing about me. I'm a has-been. A joke. A throwback to the days of stone tablets and dinosaur shit, when every wrestler hung out at Waffle House after the show. Never set foot in one of those in my lifetime. Never wrestled in Tokyo. Never earned the right to wear a Ribera jacket. The places I made the most money, the places that I found my greatest success aren't even listed anywhere online. They weren't on any map and there weren't any screaming fans or merchandise booths. There was blood. There was heart and passion and guts and survival.

There was no need for bravado. No need to announce all the things being done in advance to prepare. Either you were ready, or you were risking your life out there. Jerry Watts doesn't understand what that means. He doesn't want to. He's content to flash his pearly whites, hawk some bullshit product to his thousands of social media followers and call it a day where he EARNED a living. What a goddamn joke. The only thing that illiterate fuckwit has earned thus far is my contempt.

Oh, but tell me how I'm doing it wrong. Regale me, you mouthy little gobshite – spin the tale of the grizzled old veteran who has only ever held a measly tag team championship. Tell me that I fancied myself an educator because I couldn't hack it otherwise. Can't educate this generation. Can barely slap the stupid from their heads and the fact that it's now taken me over an hour to type these 650+ words breaks my heart. It's not because I'm inept. Don't struggle to form coherent sentences like a certain someone. I just can't stop staring down at my fingers on the goddamn keyboard. Scarred knuckles, callused fingertips and palms. They aren't the hands of a man who wears a Rolex. They aren't the hands of a man who cares if someone wears white after Labour Day.

No. They're the hands of a man who has fought for everything he's had in life that ever meant a damned thing. Now I don't expect this to even register with you. I don't expect this will change a damned thing in how you skip merrily into our match, high on your delusions of grandeur. Why not? I've beaten lessers – your words, not mine. Everyone is a worthy contender, friend. Anyone who has committed the time and energy to lace up their boots at least deserves a second glance before they're written off.

This is the Jerry Watts show, folks. We're just extras, paid to smile and sweat and bleed to make him look good. We're faceless. Expendable. So damned interchangeable that he can't even bother to get our names or gender pronouns right. Can only imagine what it might feel like to be that deluded, to stare in the mirror, see a phallus in $400 Moss Lipow shades and think "damn, I look good". Time to pose in front of some weights and take a photo.

Don't label me a hypocrite, fella. If you had more than a handful of braincells in that mushroom-shaped head of yours, you'd have figured out my social media game the moment I came into the company. The more you ignore, the better. Really. Head in the sand. Let me tell you the real story: annotated for the cerebrally impaired. Ready? Put on a helmet, fella. This one is gonna blow your wee little mind.

My name is Bruce McLeod.

I am an addict. A broken alcoholic. A walkaway joe. A deadbeat who spent nine damned years of his life estranged from his wife and daughter, singing the bloody knuckle blues before blacking out at the end of the day. Those years changed me. They left scars that won't be found on my skin. Never realized Death had been holding my hand the whole time, never felt those cold fingers in mine until it was almost too late. So you want to call me a failure? Say I've done nothing noteworthy in my life because I don't have a room full of trinkets and trophies from a giant mess of alphabet soup companies that don't even exist anymore?

I have two beautiful daughters. I have a son. I have a wife who loves me.

I have my health, my happiness, my sanity – I have a second chance to make something happen in this career and the last damned thing I'm going to let an entitled shit like you do is piss all over that. Am here, Watts. Ready to fight. Ready to give you the reality check that was endorsed years ago by so many others but that never made it to the bank. You earned every bit of my contempt. You bought and paid for the comeuppance that's mere days away.

For me, for a long time, it was a dragon. It was an outlet, an escape, anything to fill that void. I was running on empty, huffing the fumes of paranoia because I'd convinced myself that stopping for even a second would set the demons loose on me. They'd tear me apart and then I'd be reduced to nothing but dirty bones. I used to fear that more than anything else. I used to fear being alone when the reaper came calling because all the money in the bank and all those wasted, worthless years didn't amount to a damned thing when the true moment of judgement came. They were just things, Watts.

Things.

Easily replaced.

The only reason I have left for doing this is so deeply personal that it doesn't really make sense to pour out. So, I won't bother you with it. I'm here. You're here. Valora's here and that makes for an awkward dance. The line has never been more defined and this grim reality has stripped all the fancy-as-fuck words from my vocabulary.

This is the end and I'm going to go out swinging.

I don't dream of barren landscapes anymore. I don't fear being alone and I rarely wake up screaming. I can look in the mirror and I don't hate what I see staring back at me. The silver in my hair, the lines and marks on my skin – they're not flaws. They're badges of honour. I'm not past my prime. I'm a well-maintained, well-oiled machine and when folks like Vhodka Marie and Stephen Stratford and Vincent Black look at me – when people outside of this little fucktacular circle-jerk you think defines you as a world-class superstar see me, they don't see some worthless arsehole who should be unloading the production truck. They see a goddamned equal. They see someone at the top level. Someone who should be facing the World's Champion rather than Al Envy. Seems that in these parts, twats of a feather truly do flock together. Tell me I've done nothing to warrant this opportunity. Say it again. Scream it at the top of your lungs with every single breath until the very last. Won't change the outcome, but I'd never deny a fella the right to express himself as he sees fit.

In the meantime, I'm watching. I'm laughing because your hubris is hilarious and I cannot wait to watch you tumble right off that pedestal. Can't wait to watch you fall off into oblivion, you unmitigated cunt. Can't wait to douse every last inch of this place in gasoline, in the goddamned napalm of my unbridled contempt. I'll wait until I hear you hit bottom. I'll wait until that unfortunate bystander, that unwitting sacrifice in Valora is safely out of harm's way. She's done nothing untoward here. She's innocent in this whole sorry mess and I'm not a monster, after all. We'll let her get out of the way and then I'll light the match myself – fuck Ares and his #SetTheWorldAlight bullshit.

This is holocaust.

Can't wait to see the bombs drop in Pearl Harbour one more time. Watch it all burn.



It was a wonder he didn't miss the call. His phone had been on silent mode for days, this obsessive need to avoid any and all notifications more pressing than ever before. He could have lied and called it avoidance but it was more than that. He was truly starting to regret recent choices made regarding his career. He was truly starting to dread even logging into social media.

It was barely past noon and he was idly scrolling through TikTok as he sprawled on the deck chair next to the pool, soaking wet and attempting to drip dry. His daughter's name popped up on the screen and it startled him since he hadn't heard from her in a few days. That wasn't odd, or really all that irregular. He'd stopped trying to keep track of her comings and goings – it wasn't his business, after all. She was an adult, married to boot. He tapped the green icon with his thumb, putting it on speaker and setting it down on the arm of the lounger.

"Morning, Possum."

There was a brief pause, long enough that he started to listen hard, thinking maybe she'd accidentally butt-dialed him before there was a sigh. "I... uhm... is this a bad time?"

He settled the sunglasses over his eyes before letting his head fall back. "Not at all. Just having a little layabout – been up since the arsecrack of dawn. Was in the gym before the sun was even up. Cardio with the wheel today... nothin' too strenuous." He chuckled, realizing the other end of the call was ominously silent. "You alright there, hen?"

The laugh he heard in response was bitter and he could almost picture her expression. "I think I'm okay? I honestly don't know anymore."

Turning his head, he looked at the phone as if he could hear better that way. "Saw the post on Twitter about not feeling well. So, what's the matter?" He was thinking worst-case scenarios. He was thinking of illness. He was thinking Earth-shattering stuff and the fact that she was going to drop a bomb on him that meant he truly would be a grandfather soon. Instead he heard another protracted sigh before she blurted out something that caught him completely off-guard.

"What am I doing with my life?"

That bemused chuckle slipped out before he could check it, the sarcasm always the knee-jerk response. "Living it, I'd hope."

"That's not what I mean. Can you take this seriously for a second?" She almost snapped the words and then there was another pause before she murmured an apology, contrite now. "Sorry. I'm just tired. With Smith gone, I haven't been sleeping well. The house is too big, too empty and I just..." she trailed off.

"Tell me," he let his tone soften, closing his eyes in an effort to focus on her better. "What's going on? Trouble in paradise?"

"It doesn't matter how I feel, though. That's the thing."

"We've talked about this-" Bruce began, but she cut him off, her tone sharp.

"No. I mean, I am a trophy wife."

He felt a strange sort of dismay to hear those words echoed back to his ears, despite the fact that he'd said them first. "Told me I was wrong when I said that."

"I know I did." He heard a rustle, wondered what she was doing but he wasn't about to ask when it felt as though she was on the cusp of unburdening herself. "Maybe I've been thinking a lot about it. Maybe that's all I've been thinking about since-"

"Siobahn," it was his turn to sigh, feeling that prickle of unease creeping up his spine. This was what he'd wrought. He'd be dealing with the fallout of the damage done for the rest of his life. "Am sorry. Didn't mean tae sow doubt."

"But it's true." The way she said it broke his heart. She sounded so matter-of-fact, as if she'd been wrestling with this truth for weeks and had finally resigned herself to the truth that he'd so snidely presented in that moment of anger where he'd forgotten to check his temper.

"Is it?" He pushed his sunglasses up to his forehead and dug a knuckle into his eye, rubbing away an itch that he knew was more a telltale twitch than anything else. "Goan then... really? Mean tae say that Smitty doesn't love you? He does a good show online-" he cut himself off, realizing that he might have just hit the nail on the head without even intending to.

The whole of social media was a bullshit illusion, after all. He'd been toying with that for months, playing a dangerous game.

"He does love me," his daughter replied in the awkward silence, as if she needed to reassure him. He could tell the words were more for her own benefit, though. "He does, Daddy. So much."

"I believe you." He felt restless now, so he picked up the phone and got up, walking along the side of the pool into the shade. "So, what's the issue then?" The last thing he wanted to do was ask about her sex life, so he settled for something a bit vaguer. "You don't feel sparks?"

"I do." She sounded so forlorn, so lost and he thought he heard a sniffle. "I just..." the pause was long, the silence so profound that he had to check the screen to make sure the call hadn't dropped. "I just don't know."

"Okay," he sat down on the wooden bench she'd been in when she'd ambushed him during his Zen time – it felt like years ago rather than only a couple months. "So, we'll talk about something else, then. How about-"

"I don't feel good," she blurted, cutting him off. "That's probably what's making me like this."

He knew she wasn't talking about a physical ailment. Ever since the floodgates had been opened, she'd been struggling. Their first therapy session had been a trainwreck of shouting and tears, one that had ended with him being banished from the room. He'd resolved to try again, maybe after the match with Jerry Watts had happened. Maybe after the AGW mess was sorted.

"Daddy?"

"Am here, luv. Was just thinking's, all." That Scots flavour crept in for a moment before he cleared his throat, "feeling rotten certainly doesn't help, am sure." He barely paused before the next words tumbled out, the olive branch there, "why don't you come over? I'll make pancakes. We can watch movies."

"Really?" She sounded so hopeful that it broke his heart all over again.

"Definitely. Have put in enough work today. Can afford a wee break, I think."

"I'll bring Canuckle Head."

That brought a smile to his face. He'd bought the derpy moose on a whim at the Build-A-Bear stand in the Edmonton airport, almost a year ago after his first match in CGW. It had been the only thing he'd spent that prize money on and it had been a silly little gift for his daughter, even though she was an adult. The fact that she loved it more than anything had been surprising. "I'll make sure we've got maple syrup then, so he feels more at home."

"Perfect!" He could hear the smile in her voice now, "I love him so much; thank you, Daddy."

"Knew he was meant tae be yours," he couldn't keep the affection out of his tone.

"He's got the dumbest face," his daughter replied and he could hear her rummaging on the other side of the call, probably packing an overnight bag. "He stays on my side of the bed in the corner and stands watch along with my Peepers possum."

He wanted to ask her what Smith thought of the stuffed toys in the bed but thought it best not to open that can of worms when the conversation had drifted into calmer waters. Instead he allowed a bemused chuckle to slip out as he got up and headed towards the patio door. "Ah well then, you're in good hands."

"The best hands." The way she said it made it clear she wasn't thinking about her absentee husband or the bed full of plush animals. "You'll make ones with chocolate chips?" She sounded like a completely different person than the troubled woman who'd begun the call. "I'm leaving now, okay? I'll be there in a little while."

"Sounds good," Bruce replied before realizing he was talking to himself since she'd already ended the call without even saying goodbye. There was probably something to unpack there as well, but he wasn't sure he wanted to dig too deeply when they'd finally achieved a sort of fragile peace. Last thing he wanted to do was go to war in both his professional AND personal lives. One last thread of sanity had to be maintained, no matter the cost.



"Hello, lovelies." The unmistakable voice of Bruce McLeod comes through the speakers before he steps forth from the blue-on-black shadows, moving towards what seems to be a plain wooden table in the middle of an otherwise unidentifiable space. Sitting atop that surface is an open laptop and the silver-haired Scot takes a moment to flip open a metal folding chair that he carried into the scene, setting it down before settling into it. The metal creaks in the otherwise heavy silence before he reaches out and taps a button on the laptop. In the blue glow from the laptop's screen, his eyes are dead-black and intense, focused forward as the disembodied voice of Jerry Watts issues from the tinny speakers.

"Bruce Mclead has failed these fans for weeks. Though, we can't blame him having no talent for the way these fans view him. There has to be something else that draws their hatred-"

He taps that button again, halting the gibberish mid-stream.

"McLeod," he says his name slowly, the tone making it clear that he wants to roll his eyes but doesn't. Instead those unblinking eyes continue to stay locked on the camera. "You'd think a fella named 'Watts' would be a little brighter, no?" The corners of his lips twitch in a near-paroxysm of a smile before that neutral, almost bored expression returns. "Alas, here we are. The moment of truth, as it were. I feel like the prospect of facing me has broken you somehow. I truly fear that it might have – I feel a strange sort of guilt for my hand in that, if it's the case. We both see it the same way: it's like showing a stray dog a porterhouse steak. Cruel and unusual punishment. Ah, but Jerry-boy thinks that his insatiable hunger makes him dangerous, as if greed does a man any good in the long run. He thinks the steak is a gift, that he's been given the best thing ever to satiate that need to feed – doesn't realize his withered guts can't possibly handle it. He doesn't care. He's lean. He's mean. He's starving for attention and goddamnit, he's been denied his moment for too long. Tae have a successful defense would mean the world even as he's choking on it... even if it's more than his softened palate can even tear off the bone, let alone chew."

A rough chuckle slips passed those lips and he presses the button again.

"It's like you both were fed to me by the board of directors for lunch. That's not to downplay-"

"There's a board of directors now?" One dark brow arched for a split second, a derisive snort following on the heels of that. "Oh aye. Big corporation, meetings all day in some magical high-rise in the middle of downtown – Big Brother's out tae get 'im. Tinker. Tailor. Television Champion. Spy. This fella eats old Tom Clancy novels. Gotta keep the fibre intake up so he can shit out half-arsed fanfiction."

"You're here left on the flumes you rode in on. I intend on-"

"The... what?" Bruce stabs the button again, frowning for a moment before he leans forward and starts typing something on his keyboard. A moment later, that smirk does cross his lips. "Ah. Well. That makes a lot more sense."

Slowly, he turns the screen to reveal a bizarre image of Jerry Watts.



"2008. Aye. That'd be the year our illustrious hero finally ditched the indies. That's the year he found his golden ticket to the big time and he RODE THAT FLUME straight to the top. Look at how happy he is. How magnificent. How glorious and I just..."

He shakes his head, unable to even finish the thought. He gives himself over to the scornful laughter, indulging for a few moments before letting it subside. Again, that piercing stare fixes itself on the camera and he slowly reaches out, closing the lid of the laptop.

"Enough of this tomfoolery. I'm old, Watts – older than you. Older than Valora. Nobody needs tae have those facts repeated and bludgeoned into their heads in fifty increasing incomprehensible ways. Am well aware that I've not longer got the luxury of youth. I have to stand on my words and actions. I can't pull a page from our esteemed owner, slapping a fresh coat of paint on a condemned building to try and hide the damage done. We had a fire. Place was gutted. Not it's starting tae cave in on itself but here you are, dick merrily swingin' in the breeze while you recite all the things I haven't done since I came in here. You're right. I don't deserve this." 

Another rough chuckle, the 'I deserve better than the likes of you' implied in his body language as he folds his arms across his chest.  

"You've been here too long. You can't smell the rot any longer. You can't see that the roster's getting thinner every week – don't care, because you're still King Shit of Turd Island in your own eyes. Forget that Ares has the prize that's coveted here while you and the rest of the numpties play Hot Potato. Suppose it could be worse, aye? The Cracker Jack prize could be a sledgehammer."

He rolls his eyes.

"See, I've been preparing myself for this moment for months with every breath, every sleepless night and every grueling workout. It's about reality now. It's about scar tissue and guts. I can see the years on my face. I can feel them in my numb fingertips and my aching wrists as I type this. My body is breaking down. My tattoos are faded and my hair's gone silver. I'm running on fumes, aye? That's what you meant tae say, wasn't it... you illiterate fucknugget? Wrong again. Not fumes. There's plenty in the tank because I'm Prometheus – running on guts – they grow back every week. They get ripped out again and again. I bleed. I break. I get back up to spite you. How's that make you feel, Watts? Special? Humbled?"

There's a quick smirk that crosses his lips as he chuckles caustically again.

"This dumpster fire's unrecognizable from the AGW that I signed with back in July. I look back over the wreckage, and I see your hand in all of it. Stand tall, Watts. Stand proud and accountable for what you've brought on yourself. Gonna make sure you go down with it – tae hell with your little golden bauble. Keep it as a souvenir. Keep it so you remember the day you finally bit off more than that big mouth of yours could chew. You're gonna choke on this, Watts."

McLeod moves to his feet, leaning forward as he rests his palms on the table.

"You'll remember my name after tonight, every letter etched onto your soul until the end of time. I will be your end. As surely as you've damned this company to oblivion, that's the fate that awaits come Ground Zero. No more AGW."

He pauses, his tone full of barely concealed disgust.

"No more Jerry Watts."

The smirk is back as he nods in satisfaction.

"Not sure which certainty brings me more pleasure."

Before that thought can even filter through, the feed cuts to darkness, McLeod's voice echoing once more through the speakers, rendered ominous by that black void on the screen. 

"Not sure I even care."