Two Truths (& A Lie) [LEVEL UP]

These moments, blinding as snow,
they kill you, change you. 

You die and live again, remade.

The makeshift locker room was a portable trailer parked at the mouth of the alley. Fighters changed out of duffel bags, cleaned up in the rusty sinks and fought over the single toilet stall. There was no sauna. No hot tub. No steam showers. No ice baths or pampering afterwards. There was also no separation between genders and none of tonight's fighters attempted to hide their nudity. The walking dead didn't care about ogling flesh – modesty didn't exist in a world where pints of blood were sold to the highest bidder. There were no ring rats here, no paparazzi or rabid fans. There was nothing more than a grim sort of dedication to the lather-rinse-repeat monotony of a slaughterhouse while the rich grew richer with each drop spilled. They were herded through one at a time, kept isolated. Eventually that death blow would come and the only thing missing was a countdown clock over each head to mark the exact hour of passing.

The hollow-eyed kid had been kicking around since the beginning, or so the story went – a lifer. He was skinny, looked like a junkie more than a fighter with those dark circles under his eyes and the hundreds of white scars crisscrossing his back. The thicker ones around his spine made it look like he'd been whipped. The rest were jagged, squiggly lines. Nobody asked how he'd gotten them. He listed slightly to the left as he emerged from the stairwell, either punch-drunk or intoxicated. Nobody'd heard him speak. Consensus was that he was mute or maybe that the Russians had cut out his tongue. Worse things had happened to those who fell out of favor in a place like this. His face was a mess: bruised and smeared with petroleum jelly. He looked like he'd just stumbled out of the grinder, but he walked right up to The Wolverine, an ugly bark of laughter passing those cracked lips.

"Fuckin' mook," he muttered, words tinged with an American accent.

Reinhardt – The Wolverine -- pointedly ignored him.

"Hey," he said it louder now, almost slurring his words as he moved closer. It might have been from all the shots to the face that he'd eaten but the silver flask in his hand implied otherwise, "she tol' me y'were a fuckin' Rabid, Wolverine. Guess that was a loada shit, huh?"

Reinhardt still ignored him. The rest of the room fell silent, as if they could feel the storm brewing. Oblivious, his mouth kept running, "y'speak English or what?" He snorted, spitting a wad of bloody phlegm on the floor at Reinhardt's feet.

Reinhardt rubbed his soup-bone hands together but said nothing. The other fighters started to drift away, slinking off to lick their wounds in private. Nobody wanted to make this their business.

"Shoulda finished the job–" his mouth snapped shut as Reinhardt dove at him and then those giant fingers were grasping his head like a melon, repeatedly smashing it on the wood. There was no referee to break it up this time. Each impact was a cataclysmic bang inside his head, rocking the trailer and then the Wolverine's fist smashed into his cheek – the brittle sound of the bone giving way was something he felt rather than heard. Laughter and blood bubbled up between his lips, coupled with a sense of relief. This he could handle. This made far more sense than an easy and wholly unexpected win in the bowels of this Hell that had owned him for almost a year.

"ENOUGH!" Arms snaked around Reinhardt's shoulders and yanked him back. He was screaming incoherently, growling and frothing at the mouth – rabid after all. The last thing the skinny American saw before the darkness came to collect his stupid ass was the gun in her hand, pointed directly at his head.


His nose tickled – those damned Ziganov Black cigarettes smelled like a tire fire laced with Pixy Stix at a strip club. Sickeningly sweet and nauseating at the same time with a vaguely musky odor. They always gave him a headache and when he tried to rub his nose, he set off an explosion in his face. A shudder crawled up his spine, his mouth flooding with sour saliva as his guts clenches and he probably would have puked from the pain, but his stomach was empty. Dimly, he registered a flutter of movement in his blurred peripheral vision and then his hand was slapped away before he could start the whole process over again.

"Oh, Myshka," Yaponchik chided, clicking her tongue as she shook her head. "You have been reckless. What are we to do with you?"

He remembered the gun now. Remembered those ice-blue eyes beyond the yawning abyss of the barrel. The first time they'd met, she'd told him she'd had a tiny dog named Myshka when she was a girl. She'd told him that it meant 'little mouse'. It was the only personal information she'd ever given to anyone as far as he knew. He hated the name, but he knew better than to tell her that. It was her way of reminding him of his place and he understood that. He didn't know her real name. They called her Yaponchik – 'little Japanese' – her father had been Yakuza, so he'd heard.

He kept his eyes closed, licking his dry lips and then something cold was there, something sweet and she slipped a sliver of ice between his lips. It melted on his tongue and he tried to slow his heart rate, knowing she could feel his anxiety. The pain meant he'd fucked up; he'd gotten himself hurt. That meant he was now expendable and without any debts hanging over his head as incentive to keep him around until he'd healed up enough for another fight.

Bloodshot eyes lifted to fix blearily on her, and he tried like hell to find the right words to convince her on a stay of execution. Nothing came and he saw that smoke circling her fuzzed profile, making her look more dragon than human before he gave up and closed them again.

"I…"

"It is fractured. The orbital bone, they said. Will take some time to heal." While she spoke, something cool rested on his face – an ice pack, maybe? Her fingers ran through his shaggy hair, those impossibly long nails tickling like a half-dozen spiders and he hated himself for the goosebumps that broke out on his arms and neck. The littlest touches, those scraps of tenderness reminded him of a time long ago when he still believed that he deserved something more than pain and suffering.

A ragged sigh passed his lips, a strangled sound catching in his throat before the words spilled out in a hoarse whisper. "I'm sorry."

"November 17. You will fight. In Athens."

Six weeks. That’s all they were going to give him. It was generous and he wondered how much had been added to the tally on his soul.

"A-Athens?" He wondered if she knew that was where he'd been born, if she knew that place was at the top of his bucket list. Now it was like Disneyland, a reward dangling before him, ready to be snatched back the moment he showed interest – an ephemeral tease for a good little boy. "Okay. Yeah. I'll fight. In Athens."

"Good." Her fingers touched his undamaged cheek as she leaned in, pressing her dry lips to his forehead. He couldn’t feel anything, and he wondered if it was the ice or the damage. He didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to tamper with that fragile peace and the bone she’d thrown him. There would be a catch. There always was.

The silence was deafening, the roar in his ears less soothing than it should have been. Like waves crashing on an unseen shore, the rhythmic sounds of the air conditioning unit’s fan almost lulling him, but he knew she was still there, studying him. He was terrified to move, to show any further weakness and gratitude always seemed to infuriate her.

"You will fight for me in Athens. You will win." And there it was. She'd made a wager on him, one that was meant to pay off huge given his dumb-fuck injury. "You will do this for me, yes?"

"Yeah. I'll win." The or die trying remained unspoken but she was obviously clairvoyant because she let out a soft little chuckle.

"I will see you in Athens, Lex."

It was the first time she'd ever used his real name, even if it was the truncated version he'd always preferred and before he could ask what that meant, she was gone. He was thinking about Fight Club. He was thinking how in death, names were important again. He'd spent seventeen years being called anything and everything but his own name – still felt weird to hear it on someone else's lips.

The only thing left in the room was the silence and the lingering smell of those weird Russian cigarettes. He had six weeks of purgatory left. If he lost, he could end his life on the same soil as it had begun. Something in that felt right. The only thing that remained was preparing for that final fight. Dried blood. Broken glass and glue. May the circle be unbroken; by and by, Lord, by and by. Shallow breaths. Stars and black.

And then, maybe, if he was lucky? Game over. The end. Nothing but silence.

For the first time in years, he smiled (even though it hurt like hell).



The video begins with an empty red expanse, slightly blurred around the edges. There's nobody and nothing in frame and it's zoomed in close enough to show there are imperfections in the wall underneath that thick coat of crimson paint. It's a fitting image, even before that slightly raspy and soft-spoken voice comes over the speakers.

"I could waste time waxing philosophic here, spouting a bunch of nonsense. Talk about how great moments are born from great opportunities, but let's give the saccharine bullshit a rest for a while. The story of my arrival in the business – and subsequently abrupt departure seventeen years later – doesn't lend itself to a pretty little package tied with a neat bow. This is real life. There's no black and white. It's a hell of a lot more than fifty shades of gray. You got those rose-colored glasses on, they're fuckin' indistinguishable, man. That's the truth."

There's a creak from off-camera and then the face of Lex Collins comes into view – surprisingly, he's trimmed his beard although the white hairs on his cheeks make it look thinner there. The dark circles under his eyes aren't quite as prominent as they once were although they're hidden almost immediately behind his thick fingers as he presses his palms against his face. He sighs as they drop away, and he flashes a wan smile. His brown eyes are soulful, almost haunted and his one eyelid droops just a little bit more than the other – old injuries.

"I fell backwards into this business in 2003. In Chicago. A buddy of mine was gonna go try out at this wrestling school and he dragged me along for the ride. I'd been takin' bumps my whole life so I figured why not give it a go – like a duck to water, man. Seventeen years down and what do I have to show for it but scar tissue and a head full of ghosts? Fifteen, all told, in the wrestling ring. There was this two-year diversion into this underground fight thing – vale tudo, mixed martial arts an' the like. Been thinking about those days a lot lately. Maybe it's how this last year has gone. Really strips a person down to the raw core when you can't lose yourself in a crowd. Reacquainted myself with that scrappy survivor who won a hell of a lot more than he lost."

He shakes his head, a self-deprecating chuckle passing his lips.

"Fight Club shit. Tyler Durden wasn't there. None of us were clamouring for a spotlight. Nobody believed they were unique and every time we got into that painted circle on that warehouse floor there were no screaming fans, no popping digital flashbulbs to egg us on. There was just the sound of heavy breathing. There was the burn of lactic acid and the impact of flesh on flesh – we all wanted to destroy something beautiful, though. My claim to fame was that I got up. No matter what. I got back up. That little act of defiance that kept me alive through my formative years came in handy. When the Circuit got raided by Interpol, when the Russians got busted and carted off to jail, I came back to professional wrestling a changed man. I turned that defiance into a career; something to be proud of."

There's conviction in his voice even though his gaze is a little distant, as though he's still caught in that moment.

"I was never in this for the glory. For the golden trinkets. Always saw those as weights, as something that was bound to make me sink and for the longest time, I had this irrational fear of drowning. I know that puts me at odds with Jack Michaels, a man so obsessed with the spotlight that he'd do anything. A junkie does that too, y’know? Steal. Manipulate. Hurt someone they purport to love. Do whatever it takes just to have another fix – mainline that adulation, get high on the elevation. It doesn't matter as long as that rush awaits at the end. I see you. I see the real you. Made it a point in the past to call out assholes, make an example. I don't give a shit about your title runs, your many accolades. I don't care that you were the longest reining Carnage Champion. Care even less that the longer that went on, the lazier you became – never were a guy with any sort of integrity so why would anyone expect you to show up and do the work when there wasn't that spotlight attached? Could you even imagine Lord Shit rubbing elbows with commoners in a non-title match?"

He scoffs, shaking his head.

"You lost it all and you know what's funny, Jack? I stepped out voluntarily, but we were both gone for a little while this past year – the world never once stopped turning. Funny how that goes, isn't it? All the shit you did for the fame and was there any lamentations at glory’s untimely passing? Nope. They got right on with it, the circle closing on itself the moment you passed through to the outside. So, was it worth it? Would you do it again? Answer honestly. Look in the mirror, man. Look at that face. Look at what all of this has done to you, the things it's stolen – was it a fair trade?"

Collins falls silent for a moment and when he speaks again, his voice is hoarse and strained.

"I gave my pound of flesh for every little thing. I know this business' fickle as shit. I know just like that-"

Fingers snap.

"It's over 'cause there's no way to build a real foundation here. We're building sandcastles at low tide, lying to ourselves that we’re far enough away to avoid collateral damage. It’s the kind of lie that starts out harmless enough – a little sleight of mind never hurt anyone – it's the kind that propagates itself and then you have to keep building and building until it's the goddamned Tower of Babel and you've forgotten where you even began or what any of this shit was for. That's why I called myself The Architect. I build carefully. Painstakingly. Brick by brick – with honesty and integrity. I remember where I started, Jack. I know what spawned this obsessive need to put myself in harm's way. I can't forget. Every time I look in the mirror, every time my wife runs her hands over those scars on my back..."

He breaks off, closing his eyes for a moment.

"I came from death; I came from darkness. Two truths and a lie, right? That’s the icebreaker game of choice. You think you're destined to coast right to the top, assert yourself as the backbone of the company. You think I’m some dumb punk kid who hasn’t paid his dues. I paid, Jack. In full. I got all the receipts right here with me. You just gotta open up your eyes for the first time ever and realize that the tide's come in. Your bullshit castle's been washed away, that foundation built on lies eroded in an instant. They're gonna see you for who you are, Jack. An overrated has-been with delusions of grandeur. You're gonna walk out of the arena after our match feeling alienated for the first time ever. It'll be the biggest loss you never saw comin'."

Those eyes are dead black now, boring into the camera lens for a moment as he lets that last thought hang and the corners of his lips twitch towards a ghost of a smirk just before it cuts to black. The REPLAY and SUBSCRIBE buttons appear on opposite corners of the blackened window, signalling the end of the missive.