Chapter 31 (Broken Dreams, Incorporated)

DAYS SOBER: 2470

It's raining and I can hear it over the start-stop fan of this laptop – gonna have to replace it soon. It's wearing out and I can't help but think that it's a good parallel for everything else in my life right now. Wearing thin. Too damned tired for its own good. When Melinda Rhodes came to me with an offer, with some hero worship bullshit falling from her lips, I ate it up. Of course, I did. It's been too long since someone knocked at my door, pandering to my ego. So, I agreed to take up the helm, agreed to take on a second low-budget house show so she could book her huge roster of talent more frequently. I didn't expect it to end up where it has, with me playing Atlas with the bulk of it all on my back. I didn't expect to have such a rousing success. We got Aurora Zambrotta and a Narcoleptic Ninja over with the fans. 

I don't want to run Southern Rebellion Wrestling; that's the problem here. That's the key issue. I'm sick of taking up the reins in failing places, dragging them back from the brink of extinction and then not getting a lick of credit (see WWH: Asylum, for example). And while I could take it all off her hands, clean that plate for her so that she's got the freedom to gallivant to other places and play slap and tickle with her bestie Ursula, I don't want this place to undergo another change of management. I don't care about the Galactic Ladies Wrestling (or whatever in the fuck it was called) history. Doesn't matter. The narrative changed and they deserve better than someone who's gonna lie about being 99% checked out on the product. They've already endured enough.

There's no way to pull this off that isn't going to upset the apple cart, even though this little project of mine has been in the works since I walked away from the Asylum. I know she's going to be pissed off and now all I can think about is heading down by the river and walking in this rain until I'm soaked to the skin and all this stink of indecisiveness has been washed away. I've never really aspired to be an asshole, not really. It happened naturally. It happened so gradually that I can't even pinpoint the catalytic moment. I used to get booed all the time, used to be up there on the TV screens, larger than life and inciting hatred. I never really wanted that. I used to give so few shits about people's feelings – wish I could have that part of myself back. I know it was the cocktail I kept pumping into myself, calling it maintenance. It was a buffer against the pain. Against being human.

There's no easy way to do this and I wish the rain held the answers. I used to love going for walks in the rain, washing myself clean in the most cathartic way and I'd watch the trash slide past in the gutter, and think about my career. I was such an idiot then, taking all of it for granted. I thought I was immortal. I thought I'd be able to do it forever and my body would just bounce back like I was Wolverine. I've got enough metal screws holding me together now that I set off the detector at the airport – I don't expect anyone gives a shit about self-inflicted wounds. The rain comes, washes it all away and all the "coulda, shoulda, woulda" sad stories slip into the sewer where they belong.

She won't understand any of this. I don't expect her to. To her, I was a means to an end, a crutch to keep the business afloat so she could continue to chase glory in the ring elsewhere. She's not ready to hang it up, to hand off that torch to someone else. I get that. She's gotten good at playing martyr, at claiming the world is out to get her and I'm sick of hearing the same broken record. If she's at the arena tonight, I'll tell her about UPRISING. If not, we're gonna have this damned "come to Jesus" talk one way or another.

– Jax


Rome, GA || 11-12-2020

Jackson stared at the laptop screen, trying to still the tic in his eyelid that had been coming and going for hours. The stream of the show was paused on the screen, ten minutes in – this had been the first one he hadn't micro-managed since he'd come on board. He'd been testing a theory, checking to see if he'd been right and the opening segment had been so painful to watch that he hadn't been able to bring himself to continue.

"Fuck," he muttered, reaching up to rub his hand over the stubble that was already covering his jaw even though he'd just shaved a few hours ago.

He wondered if anyone had even noticed that he'd locked the office door and bailed from the arena before the show had even started. The way things had gone, probably not. He felt ragged, still off-kilter from the Xanax he'd taken last night, just to steal a few hours of sleep. It had been months since he'd needed one and the fact that the old insomnia was rearing its ugly head now was more telling than anything else. It was a sign. He needed to abandon ship. He needed to pull the trigger and book the show for UPRISING. Instead he was still sitting here staring at the screen until his eyes felt like they were going to bleed.

Right now, he knew he didn't look like a businessman, with the permanent stubble, and the dark circles under his eyes. He looked like an old drunk.

His finger drifted towards the keyboard, hovering over the delete button, his hand trembling minutely from the nerve damage. A part of him wanted to just disappear, block all calls and see how long it took her to notice. A sigh escaped his lips, and he moved his finger, eyes scanning over the words again.


Finger hovering over the send button again, he looked up when he heard the bedroom door opening and locked eyes with his wife.

"Thought you were coming to bed," she said, the tone of admonition mostly teasing.

"In a moment," he turned the laptop towards her, inclining his head at the screen. "Read this? Tell me if I'm being an asshole?"

She moved closer, eyes scanning over the words as she twisted a lock of her blonde hair around her finger. Nodding, she met his gaze again. "It's more than she deserves."

"Yeah," he sighed, "but I held out my hand and offered to pick up the slack."

"And she kept taking. And taking. Who's getting the credit for all the shows you produced, for all those hours you put in? Who's got the money rolling in for every view that happens online after the fact? Not you, that's for damned sure."

She was right. He'd propped her up, had supported the place for months and he'd seen nothing, but a few lip-service words thrown around on social media. "Here goes," he clicked the send button and watched while it vanished from the view into the aether of the Internet. "She's gonna lose her fucking mind."

"Let her," Lyv replied, moving closer to rest her hands on his slumped shoulders. "Maybe in time she'll realize you're trying to do her lazy ass a favor… like you were when you suggested she close down a few weeks ago."

"If you want to wrestle… fuckin' wrestle," he groused, "if you wanna manage a company… do that. You can't do both. There aren't enough hours in a day, in a fuckin' week…" again he trailed off into a sigh, closing the lid of his laptop. "It's lose-lose, either way. I don't want to burn the bridge. The whole thing is just shitty-" 

"She put you in that position." 

"Worst part, though?" Jackson chuckled bitterly, "is I let her. Couldn't bring myself to say no. Couldn't fuck over the folks there busting ass." 

"It's done," she lifted her hand to his cheek, "oh, did you get the last of that paperwork from the lawyer? He was supposed to send it over tonight."

"Yeah. We'll have to print it out, sign and fax it back when we're home. But it's official. You're a 2% shareholder, like I promised." The smile on her face was enough to make him feel better and he moved to his feet, pulling her into his arms. "Couldn't have done this without you, babe."