"BIG BANG Theory" [RRS HCHT Final Round]

"This long in the business, you start to develop bad habits – little tics and tells. The slopes seem slipperier somehow, even though we can navigate the worst of them with our eyes shut tight. Scotty and I've got that in common, after all."

The darkness resolves to show Bruce McLeod sitting with his back against a blank cinderblock wall. He's wearing a white wife beater with peeling painted-on letters that spell out MACHO MAN. The material's darkened in a vee down the front, soaked no doubt with the same sweat that dots his brow before he lifts a cloth into view, wringing the excess water from it with a squeeze of his fist. It spatters down like rain and he watches it for a moment before swiping that wet rag across his face. He lets out a sigh, closing his eyes as he drags in a slow breath.

"Sometimes all it takes is an image, simple as that and the mind is keen tae dump that motherlode of adrenaline. Fight or flight – this odd sort of ‘Nam flashback, PTSD bullshit. Tonight, I saw a pair of shoes hanging over a power line. Red like a beacon. These fuckin' discarded Chuck Taylor high tops and I'm not seeing that signal. Am seeing a pair of wrestling boots in the middle of that stained canvas. Same splash of red, drying to a muddied brown now. Was only a flash, a fleeting fancy before my eyes corrected that misfire, told my brain what we were passing under. Shoes on a wire. Not some portent of impending doom. Oh, aye. But it left that acid bubbling in the back of my throat. Left me feeling half a dozen things I'd rather not on the eve before what may turn out to be the most important match of 2020."

Those dark eyes open as he lowers his head, licking his lips before lifting his hand to scrub it across them, almost as if he wants to wipe away the bitter aftertaste of that particular confession.

"You ever feel like time's running after you, gaining on you. Like there's no time left, and it's about tae overtake you, dropping you into the past without any sort of notice? Oh, aye. There's the rub and it chafes something fierce. Never been more keenly aware of that sound of marching feet than I have been these past few days and now it's gotten so it's all I hear. My pulse has slowed itself, matching pace as a sort of mockery, am sure. And now it's just wasted time with gnashing teeth, feeble little lamentations about these precious squandered seconds rather than doing something important with the last moments. The curse of being human. We need tae assign meaning to everything, search the cosmos for proof that we're not out here alone. But what if we are? What if there's no other signs of intelligent life – what if there's no God... no Heaven or Hell... no afterlife or final accounting. What if the end of the ride is simply the end? Poof."

He snaps his fingers.

"We built it all up for nothing, only to have that candle snuffed to find nothing beyond this but infinite darkness. Does that cheapen the whole experience? Does that make it worth far more than the prize that awaits the winner of this whole little fuckaree of ours? I couldn't begin tae weigh in on the subject, despite my desire tae leave some sort of legacy behind before the last grains of sand drop. Fitting, I suppose, waxing this sort of philosophical on the last damned evening of this accursed year."

There's a grim smile on the lips of the silver-haired Scot for a moment before he shakes his head.

"Aye. It's fucking terrifying what a fella'll do when he feels out of control. Day in and day out, paying this sort of sick homage to the golden god of fame. Is that what this is all about, Scotty? Finding meaning amidst the chaos? Asserting control over that one little thing we can? We're both the worst sort of liars though, aren't we? Tell ourselves that family matters more than anything else. I want tae see my eldest daughter happily married with weans of her own. Wanna see my son take his first steps. Wanna see my sweet Maggie Mo break a few hearts. Instead, am here with this pair of boots before me, checking the laces. Am here when I should be sleeping, watching old tape of even older matches – ready tae light that fuse and hope this one isn't a dud. What's new years, after all, without the fireworks? What's a Violent New Year without a little bloodshed?"

He sighs.

"Existence is defined by far more than hash marks on the walls, by more than counting days in the hole – a legendary career in this business by far more than counting wins and losses an' collecting title belts like Cracker Jack prizes. We're more than this, Scotty. So much more. You know it. I know it."

He sucks his teeth for a moment, clearly stalling as he mulls over saying the words on the tip of his tongue. In the end, he does. He can't keep them in any longer.

"Let's do it, Scotty. No more lollygagging or pussy-footing ‘round the truth. Time's run out. No more wasted moments, squandered movements. No more words. No more white noise falling on deaf ears. I know you hear it too. The endless march is not infinite. It never was and it's time now. Have tae finish this. Do whit we came here tae do, despite the sheer insanity of it all – time tae go out with a BANG."

That thought hangs in the silence for a few moments before he leans forward, his gaze focused forward and unblinking.

"Someday soon the sun won't rise. The darkness will stay and our feet'll falter and those relentless boots of that endless march will run right over our rotten carcasses... indiscriminate. It won't be today, Scotty. I won't be trampled in this godforsaken place, on the last day of this motherfucker of a year."

He pushes to his feet, all traces of civility gone from his demeanor in an instant, those last words repeated in a tone that's laced with pure steely venom.

"No. Not today."