FORTY-SEVEN: Back Pages (Legacy) [WW #2]

The ringing in his ears wouldn't stop. He felt like week-old roadkill and the fact that he'd eked out a technicality of a win didn't bring him one ounce of joy. He'd wanted so desperately for this to have been his last time going to that shitty little arena in Edmonton with its seats that were more and more empty each week. It wasn't due to further lockdowns. It wasn't the ongoing worldwide bullshit that was to blame. The company was a joke. It had become one the moment that championship had landed around the waist of Britney Anders.

Letting out a soft groan, he leaned back against the seat, bringing his hand up to shield his eyes against the blinding headache that was looming. He hoped it was just the hunger he felt gnawing at his guts. The steak dinner he'd gobbled up before the match had been nothing more than a rental, after all. He wasn't sure his wife even knew about that little hiccup – the yips were coming more often these days.

"Bruce?" Charity's voice was soft as she gently touched his shoulder.

He said nothing. Didn't even register that touch or the sound; he was still lost in that seashell white noise rushing through his head.

"Bruce?" Charity's voice was firmer, more insistent with a hint of panic now as she nudged him again, this time hard enough that he rocked slightly. She pulled her hand back like he'd burned her – he rarely stumbled, and she used to make a game of trying to knock him off-balance.

Slowly, he turned his head, feeling his neck muscles protest. He could see the fear in her eyes as he blinked, and she slowly came into focus. "Hey."

"Hey," she replied, letting out a relieved sigh. He'd been on autopilot since they'd left the hall and that dead-eyed stare of his was freaking her out beyond belief. She knew he had to be in agony after twenty minutes spent beating the holy hell out of that damned girl, "uh," she licked her lips, "we... we're here."

He looked up, realizing that the sensation of motion was completely in his head. The cabbie that had been chattering away animatedly through the whole ride was outside, leaning against the bumper while he enjoyed a cigarette. He'd been on autopilot, every inch of his body screaming in protest as he unbuckled the seatbelt.

"I'm so sick of this place," she couldn't keep the words in as she laid her hand on his chest. "They treat you like an afterthought. "

He said nothing. She was right. He wasn't going to belabour the point. After the last year, they'd driven the point home. They didn't feel he deserved better.

"Every time we walk out of that place, you feel like shit."

"Nae," he chuckled, "would need a week of rest for an upgrade like tha'."

The joke didn't land. Her eyes narrowed and she stared at him for a good ten seconds.

"Stop it," he groused, brushing her hand aside, "am not some wee delicate flower."

"It's okay. I should've realized—"

"Cherry," he sighed, "don't start that shit. I spaced out... started dozin' a little. That's all, Babylove. Am right's rain – promise."  The lie fell from his lips effortlessly. "Jus' a wee bit knackered. Think I earned that right, didn't I?"

She nodded, taking that at face value. He hadn't lied to her in years – she didn't expect him to start doing it now. She reached for the duffel bag that rested at her feet. "Maybe we should go to the hospital and get you checked, just to be sure."

"I'm fine," he said softly, closing his eyes for a second as he pulled in a deep breath through his nose before slowly exhaling through his mouth. With a shaking hand, he reached out and opened the door, swinging his legs around to put them on the pavement. Before he even managed to leverage his stiff body from the seat, Charity was there, holding out her hand to him. He waved it off, straightening up with a protracted groan that ended with his back and knees popping in a hideous symphony...



He had no memory of the trip home. The entire flight from Canada back to McCarran was a gaping hole. He remembered the cab. Remembered stepping out to the curb and then waking up next to the pool as the fingers of light reached over the horizon to stab directly into his eyes. The clouds were on fire – it reminded him a little too much of that morning on the way to London and he had to shake that déjà vu chill of foreboding. Steam rose from the cup of coffee sitting on the table, mirroring the wisps coming up from the heated surface of the swimming pool. It felt nice to be home, back out of the frosty cold winter of Canada. Ironically, he'd tried to put his career AND the Rising Star Championship on the line against the CGW Champion but the powers that be had balked, making it a title versus title affair instead. He couldn't remember how the match had gone but his fist was stiff, and his knuckles swollen so that he couldn't get his wedding ring on.

He'd had to look it up, had to understand why he still had that goddamned belt in his possession.

Right now, it was at the bottom of the pool. He'd thrown it in a fit of childish pique because he hated everything it stood for. It was an insult. It was an affront to the twenty years he'd given to the business, only to be put in contention for a 'rising star' championship in 2020.

"Low-key fuck 2020," he muttered.

Letting out a sigh, Bruce settled the sunglasses over his eyes and leaned back on the lounger, looking out over the water. This moment of reflection had become a sort of ritual, one that had started back when he'd signed on with the ill-fated reboot of WARPED. It had helped then, a sort of morning therapy to focus his mind and set the goals for the day. Today, he just wanted to be able to move unfettered, unbothered by pain. He didn't want to think about wrestling. He didn't want to think about what was coming next, despite the promise of a veritable island paradise and furnished housing for the talent. A bubble seemed safer than this damned travel, than having to be tested so many times he was starting to think he was losing braincells to all the stabbing and swabbing.

The ache in his eye socket was back – that randomly stabbing pain seemed to mimic what he'd felt at the moment of impact. Nerve damage, they'd told him. It might improve with time. It never seemed to fade, just recede into that zone of 'who gives a shit' that lived somewhere outside his scope of reality. He was edging out of that place now, and it wasn't a good thing. The anger was percolating in his guts, souring into that impotent fury that always prompted something stupid. It seemed to go hand-in-hand with the nausea – he suspected it was probably something he'd need to see a doctor for eventually, but lately the herb he smoked in the evenings seemed to right the upset apple cart just enough to get by. It had become a series of counterbalances and he knew that he was running out of time – good luck explaining that one to any of the mouthy little shits who just wanted to accuse him of cutting and running every time something in a company didn't go the way he liked. It was more than that. He wanted the perfect place for that last hurrah: one that wouldn't insist he leap off scaffolding or set himself on fire or be bashed in the face with barbed wire bats.

Chasing Glory Wrestling wasn't that place. The fact that he'd been booked against Brit Anders almost half a dozen times in the last year should have spelled that out, but he was unbelievably myopic to the writing on the wall. He'd taken more damage in London than he'd intended, and the pain was still there, fucking up his workouts and his sleep. The less rest he got, the more the paranoia was setting in. He was seeing screw jobs in every shadow, waiting for the other shoe to drop. His eyes were closed against the impending headache, hidden behind those heavily tinted aviators when he heard the creak of the garden gate. There wasn't any wind, so he knew it was someone, assuming it was that fleet-footed child of his coming to check up on him. A rough chuckle passed his lips as he spoke, not even bothering to look. Of course, her mother had called her, summoned her here to poke and prod past the wall of secrets.  

"Am fine. Still mostly intact. No need tae skulk about to check up on me."

The silence that answered him was so profoundly awkward that he immediately sat up, feeling slightly dizzy for a moment. Standing in front of the roses, wearing a sheepish expression, was the boy his daughter had been seeing for the better part of the last year.

"Sorry," the boy's voice carried well enough to his ears, that hint of a British accent just enough to make the word seem all that more sincere. "Sam told me you like to spend the mornings out here by the pool and I thought maybe I'd-"

"She's not here," Bruce cut him off, reaching for the cup of coffee on the table.

"Oh, I know. She's gone for her morning run. She'll probably be back in an hour, so I don't have a whole lot of time." Jude Mitchell took a few steps closer to Bruce, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans before immediately pulling them back out. "I just wanted to talk to you. Promise I won't take up too much of your time."

This can't be good, he thought, forcing a smile as he looked over at the nervously fidgeting boy. He set the cup down, leaning forward. "C'mon then, fella. Sit down... tell me what's on your mind, hmm?"


This is not how I envisioned the end. Honestly, it really isn't. I never expected to be the guy with the sagging man-tits out there, still hyping up the crowd when I'm creeping up on pension age – granted, the fact that I've not gone completely soft yet is a blessing. But let's be honest for a moment, shall we? That little barb about 'being fit for the retirement home' rankled a little more than it should've. Why? Ah, for the obvious reason, I suppose. I quit smoking over a year ago. I stopped eating so much red meat and dairy – didn't change the damage already done. No, friends. My knees still make more noise than breakfast cereal in the morning. Knuckles swell when bad weather's on the horizon.

Red sky in the morn, sailors be warned.

We do things to maintain because denial and burial of fear is the thing that sets us apart from the animals. We want to live forever. We want to be immortal but the longer the timeline becomes, the dumber we get.

My father died of prostate cancer when I was thirteen. My mother from ovarian cancer the next year… I got to watch them both waste away to skeletal remains before they ever went into the ground – no funeral arrangements. Both were cremated. Ashes added to a golden pendant that my Nan gave me before I was shipped off to New York and the Irish cousins. These days, it's around the finger of my wife. One day it'll pass down to my firstborn daughter.

It's a legacy, I suppose. One day, my own body will be burned. The remains added and the thing shaped into something else – I'll finally be immortal then – the dream realised in the worst possible way.

The last thing my mother told me was to be a good boy. Be good, and everything would be amazing – this bright and glorious future for this cast-off orphan boy. What is "good"? The word gets tossed around, diluted so much that it could be anything. Good food because you didn't die when you ate it. Good boy to your dog because he didn't shit in your shoes while you were out. Good-bye when you leave because you want to be polite.

But what is good (besides the obvious and/or snarky answer of 'subjective as fuck', of course)?

Society will have you believe it's the opposite of bad, but both are subjective terms. Apollo's first opponent was Omegaman, an idiot in a mash who thinks he's a hero. Did that make him a villain by default in that victory? Does that make me a hero as well? I'm not sure I want to take up that mantle. I'm not sure a so-called hero should be fixated on the thought of revenge and retribution.

I wasn't pinned in that match.

I didn't even want to win another championship I have no use for, especially not saddled with a damnable stranger as a partner. Already stuck with one of those that I just can't seem to get rid of (remind me to fish the damned thing out of the pool one of these days – that saltwater can't be good for the pleather, after all). Kudos to Amber and TJ for getting the job done, for functioning as a team. Should I feel a sort of pity for Apollo? Should I go easy on him? Should I walk a mile in his shoes and try to understand why he dropped the ball so spectacularly in the ring after such a promising start?

Not sure I even wanna ask. I don't want to hear some sob story about a bad day. We're professionals. We're paid to show up no matter what and perform to the best of our abilities. I don't want to hear about how he was a victim of circumstance – I'm sure leaving me high and dry wasn't malicious and I shouldn't feel owed a pound of flesh in recompense for the blight that's now on my record here in WrestleWorld.

Of course not.

That would imply I think I'm owed something – heaven forbid I show an ounce of ego when I've done nothing to earn it.

I've spent the last twenty years raging against those same demons. I felt like the world owed me something. For a while, it was success and I clawed with a psychotic level of frenzy to get it. I wanted the wins column to be bigger. It took a few years, but it happened. After that, I wanted gold. I wanted to work my way through all the leather in every company so I could say I left my metaphorical footprint on the moon. That was what I came back for, what I've been chasing for the last two years.

I walked away from gold that fell into my lap last year. Am sure everyone's heard the tale of AGW by now. Alphabet soup, meaningless letters now. Nobody cares.

I've one foot out the door in another promotion. Wasted a year and a half there, trying to make it work. Does that make me greedy? Does that mean I'm shiftless and restless and worthless?

No.

I sound bitter, don't I?

Ironic, I guess. I have a championship I didn't want in a company that doesn't know how to book matches and I have no right to complain because I am getting paid. Every time we get on that plane to Canada, my wife tells me I need to pull out. I can't bring myself to say it. I can't let the critics be right, even if they have no idea what's happening behind the scenes. I'm not going to make any excuses for the last few months, for the mistakes and all the false steps. I was jumping at greener pastures without my glasses on.

It is what it is. I'm afraid to stop going. I'm afraid of failure – afraid of burning out and fading away. I am trying so damned hard to make something happen and I spend most of my days making lists of the shit I need to do before the end. The end of what? This, kids. My career. This machine is broken beyond repair and this is the fucking death rattle. Sad, isn't it?  

I'm such a goddamn contradiction.

I'm addicted to this business – the rush, the pain, the glory.

It's the only thing that ever really made me feel alive. The glory has been here so often over the past few years that I started to take it for granted. That's what I need to make amends for – not for the desire to cave in the skull of that damned Canadian who let me down on the island.

It's for looking that gift horse in the mouth.

It's for being ungrateful.

Those who forget the past are destined to repeat it.

You can say whatever you want right now, and it won't matter. You can scream bullshit out the window while you drive by in your getaway car, detached from reality. Some of us don't get that luxury. Some of us actually LIVE here.

There's no remorse, Apollo. No apologies. No vendetta. No further promises of doom and gloom for the masses – I've screamed into the void far too much these days. My back pages are getting full, and I still have no idea how this story ends. Nothing's that simple.

Losing doesn't matter.

Strip away all the bullshit and it's just a tale about a fella who can't quit on this business even though it's doing its best to kill him. Denial's a great thing and we're all dying, no matter how much we want to run from that truth. Some of us just get a little more time. I'm committed to making mine count, right here... in a company that actually matters.