FORTY SIX: RIGHT PLACE, RIGHT TIME [WW #1]

The blood-thirsty fans had dispersed nearly an hour ago. His ears were still ringing as he sat in sweat-soaked misery on the wooden bench in the back of the deserted little locker room the lower tier members of the Fallout roster had been using. His face felt hot, still burning with embarrassment. The rest of the talent had been more than eager to put some distance between themselves and the fading echoes of the frenzied crowd, off to whatever afterparty was being hosted. Tonight, he couldn't bring himself to move from where he sat.

His hands wouldn't stop shaking.

He held his wedding ring between his fingers, rubbing the last bits of glue from the tape off its etched platinum surface. The side of his pinky finger was sticky – he rubbed at it absently, wishing he could ditch the humiliation as easily with a little friction. The fact that he'd gone from curtain jerking in a dark match to high-profile rumble in the span of two weeks wasn't lost on him – shitty booking was never as ironic in the moment as he knew it would be later in hindsight. Sixteen of the best and brightest tied up in a match for a prize that was as laughable as whatever a pile of tickets at Chuck E. Cheese could buy after a night of dominating at Skee-ball. It might as well have been a paper Burger King birthday crown for all the title of 'TYRANT' meant. He was sick of all the anticlimactic bullshit, and the funny part was that he'd never expected for even a second that he was going to win.

You're only as good as your last match.

He knew that to be tried, tested and true with as much certainty as he knew that he'd just stepped into a Project:Honor ring for the very last time. He needed to stop blindly following the invitations of others. Vhodka Marie had enticed him to go to OPW. He'd already had one foot out the door in AGW, had already felt the shifting in the foundation with the rebranding. Outlaw Pro had proven far too erratic and chaotic for his tastes and the prospect of a prolonged overseas tour held little appeal. He'd not expected to find himself on this side of the pond, twenty-four hours removed from his forty-ninth birthday. He'd left Scotland thirty-five years ago, shipped off to live with distant relatives. It had taken him this long to even feel good about coming back and all that optimism had been shattered in an instant.

His head was never meant to wear a crown – he was fit for one-off random nonsense and being saddled with that damnable 'Rising Star' championship when he'd already flushed twenty years of his life down the shitter of the wrestling business. He was a joke with a punchline that evoked eye rolls and groans rather than any sort of genuine amusement.

His hands were still shaking, and he wondered if they'd ever stop. Peripheral vision on one side was fucked and now he had this goddamned tremor going on. Maybe it was getting on time to hang the boots up for—

"Da?"

He closed his eyes, taking in a shallow breath because everything hurt. He heard the squeak of her shoes on the floor, almost felt like he could hear the spike in her blood pressure when she got close enough to see him, hunched up and huddled in the corner on that damned uncomfortable bench. He waited out the silence, the old force of habit coming into play because Bruce the wrestler was still firmly in the driver's seat.

Siobahn bit her lip, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she stared at him, just as stubborn as he was. The weight of her gaze was neither oppressive nor unwelcome, didn't feel as judgmental as the laser-focus intensity that he'd have gotten from his wife – he didn't blame her for that. Over the years, he'd had this nasty habit of coming home broken more often than not.

"What a clusterfuck that was..." she broke the silence first, earning a derisive snort from her father.

"Aye. T'was at tha'," he murmured his response, that hoarse whisper all he had left after the exertions, his throat aching just as much as everything else was.

She sat down next to him, forcing him to scoot over a little to make room rather than crowd her with sweaty stink. "Geez, all this time back here, I'd have thought you were spending time in the shower, hogging all the hot water." Now that she was sitting next to him, she could feel the vibration and when she looked down, she saw what he'd forgotten to hide. "Da?" She sounded uneasy now, "are you okay?"

He glanced up at her, making eye contact for a brief second before returning his gaze back to the floor. "Yeah," he replied, "just fine."

"You're shaking..." she said this as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Her brow furrowed and the forced smile she'd come in here with was fading quickly. "What's wrong?"

"Happens sometimes," the words spilled out past numb lips and he found no comfort in them. His hands were still shaking, even clasped together between his knees.

"This is the first time I've seen it happen."

He said nothing for a long moment, staring at the floor as he pressed his hands together tighter. His arms were trembling now too. She could probably feel it through his shoulder. "It's not the first time." He pushed to his feet, walking over towards the locker he'd stowed his street clothes in even though he immediately felt dizzy. He reached out, trying not to make it obvious as he rested his hand against the cool metal, closing his eyes and trying to find a quiet place in his own head. Every fibre of his being was screaming that this was wrong. Being here. This room. This company.

"Does mom know?"

The silence was heavy, like a physical thing he could feel pulling him down towards that grave he could feel yawning at his heels. Denial was easier. Avoidance far more palatable than stepping into another battle when he was still reeling from the last.

"Dad…" she drew it out, a thousand syllables like she was three-going-on-four rather than in her twenties and then she let the silence take over for her, knowing what it would do to him. He could feel the weight of her gaze on his back, and it took everything in him not to let his shoulders slump as he pulled out his bag, dropping the elbow pads and his wrestling boots into it. He still had the salt-stained jeans on – at this point he might need the jaws of life to cut the stiff material from his body, but he forced himself to move, clearing his things out in record time. He'd shower back at the hotel and then probably spend the rest of the night in an ice bath.

"Just drop it," he finally growled, unable to take that oppressive silence any longer.

"I can't," she replied, "you're my da-"

"Mind that then." He threw the duffel bag and her and pride kept him upright as she followed him out into the hallway. Barely coherent, he limped along, head low and fingertips trailing over painted cinderblock. He opened his eyes and found himself propped against a pillar in the parking garage. His ears were ringing again and there was a metallic taste at the back of his throat. He felt like he might pass out. He felt like he might get sick.

He felt too fucking old for all of this shit.

"Oh hell, Da."

"Hush now," he mumbled, ears ringing louder as the car park went in and out of focus. Dangerously close to passing out, he fairly oozed into the passenger seat and immediately slumped to put his head between his knees.

There's nothing to be had here. Pull the plug. Go home, old man. This isn't the right place. Definitely not the right time.

His hands were in view when his vision cleared, and they finally stopped shaking as those thoughts took root, cemented as a certainty.

This isn't the right place. This isn't the right time.


You's a right choob if you think, in this day and age, that the whole 'nobody knows who you are' schtick is gonna fly. Baskin Robbins 31 Flavours of social media, and you mean to tell me you couldn't spend ten seconds typing my name into any one of those search bars? There's already a fine line between ignorance and willful laziness – doesn't need to be blurred by the likes of you. I can't remember if you were there in London on that manufactured Hallmark holiday. I'd look it up, but it's not important. We both know this isn't the only company you work for. The only one that saw fit to throw the yappy little dog a bone.

Hello, lovelies. Name's Bruce – this late in the game, you either know me or you don't. If you fall into the latter category, it really sucks to be you. See, for the last year or so, I've been popping up everywhere. Sand in the hourglass starts to dwindle, a fella needs to make the rest of those grains count, hmm? So here we are, headed into a big show and I've managed somehow to luck my way into another match with IMPORTANT RAMIFICATIONS.

What's this, though? Are you truly incensed that you've got a decorated veteran, a venerable champion pencilled in for that defense – one would think a fella like you'd welcome a challenge. Ach, yes. That's right. I've heard about the curse with these belts. Have heard nobody holds them beyond the first defense. Sorry. If you were expecting a cakewalk, you're certainly not going to get that from us. It's clear that my partner is motivated to showcase his own talents, after the drizzling shits of disappointment that he got from his last outing.

So, we've on record that you take offense to usurpers like me crawling in here and... doing what? Trying to wrestle in a place with the best damned talent in the business? TJ would rather bar someone like me – a virtual nobody, apparently – from rubbing shoulders in a locker room with folks I can respect. Well, shit. Sorry to step on your toes, sunshine. See, there's a fly in that ointment: I was invited to come here more than a year ago. Obligations elsewhere kept me from accepting and I'd mistakenly assumed it was a time-sensitive deal.

But let's not let facts ruin that great story. Do what you're best at, and you don't think too much about it. You lie because it makes it easier. I get that, I do. Never understood that need to undercut everyone, but here we are. Can't all be rainbows and puppy dog kisses and a whole locker room singing kumbaya around a campfire.  

It all runs together these days: worn-out faces and worn-out places. Stop. Start. Stop again. I'd tell you to look it up, but you already made it clear that's a prospect far too CUMBERSOME for the likes of a decorated champion like you (and my heart pumps purple pony piss for anyone who considers you a role model if that's the level of your preparation).

Jesus wept.

Ah, yes. I'm the unknown here. No reputation precedes me – what a wild trip that is and I can't stop laughing. Not because it's clever. Not even because it's funny. Because it's TRUE. I've been part of this meat grinder business for twenty years and the people who know my name are still few and far between. This isolated little place has promise, with its private island and all the fancy trimmings. I like the idea of having a fresh start, even if that means I've got to prove myself to gobshites like TJ Thompson.

All this dithering about and I've not answered your question. You'll forgive the lapse, I'm sure.

What was it you asked again? Ah, yes. How did I even end up in this match?

I was in the right place. It was finally the right time.

If I look at this rationally – honestly – I'm always going to be reaching. I'm always going to fall short. They don't care. The bookers. The fans. Our peers. They all have their own agenda but most just want to fill a void. Money. Entertainment. Fame. So we do what we do best. We open that vein and we let them suckle – for a while they feel like Gods because they're high on ambrosia. We end up dried-out husks, drained old men by the time we're in our mid-forties. This is a last gasp. This is a death rattle and I'm not letting you steal my spotlight or my goddamned air.

Just a few little things, fella. A little advice, as it were.

Make the shots count. Reach out and hit me as hard as you can. Put me on my ass. Push my head under water and make sure the reflex kicks in and I breathe liquid death before you let go. Make sure I don't get up or draw another breath because if I do, you're fucked a thousand ways to Sunday. You better believe that. No lies and no pulled punches. Never invite the Devil himself to dinner. Never stare too long into the abyss. Never cross the streams. Never piss on the electrified fence.

Never tempt fate.

I've been doing it for YEARS. It's changed me in ways I couldn't possibly explain in such a paltry little medium as this. I wouldn't dare try for fear of coming off as trite as all that nonsense you seemed to reciting more for your sake than mine. I have faith that Apollo can hold his own. I know what I bring to the table.

It's the little things, TJ. Just a wee tincture of respect was all that was needed to avoid the worst of what's to come. Just a little hint of welcome. See, it's the little things that mean the most.

T'would be a shame if a couple veritable and VENGEFUL NOBODIES were to beat you and dear Amber for those belts. Oh, aye. A damned shame indeed. Wonder what that would make you then? A bigger joke than Pinchy? Guess we're gonna find out soon enough.