FORTY-NINE: War Stories [WW #3]

The man at the other end of the bar was loud – this bombastic and charismatic brick shithouse, tanned arms covered in tattoos. His name was BRAD JACKSON and every woman in the place had their eyes on him. He was telling stories about the road, these embellished tall tales full of gristle and gore and hijinks. By contrast, he sat in the corner where the bar met the wall, nursing his lukewarm beer and feeling about as interesting as the bowl of stale-as-fuck pretzels on the bar top. He knew what Jackson was doing, drumming up interest and schmoozing the crowd, passing out tickets for the show that was happening on Monday night at State Fair Park.

The jukebox in the corner was playing Journey, Steve Perry's impressive falsetto spiraling up towards the exposed rafters as he let his head rest against the weathered brick. The girl was at his elbow for a while before he even noticed her, and by the time he did, her eyes were on Jackson as well. "What's his deal?"

Bruce McLeod let out a sarcastic chuckle, taking a pull of his beer before licking the foam from his lips. "What makes y'think am privy to that kinda information?"

He glanced sidelong at the girl who simply rolled her eyes.

"You've been eye-fucking him all night. So, either you're waiting for the herd to thin a little so you can make your move, or you know him – betting it's the latter."

He pretended to wince. "Ach, my poor, queer little heart." His laughter on the heels of that statement was almost caustic. For a moment, he was tempted to tell her the truth: that they were both wrestlers, that they'd known each other for years and that his good friend Jackson had actually gotten him the gig with World Class Wrestling in the first place – he couldn't because the concept of kayfabe still meant something to him. Jackson was one of the up-and-coming bad guys on the show. He was nothing more than enhancement talent, the guy paid to be beat down on the regular, usually in front of the live crowd as a teaser before the cameras got rolling for the broadcast show. He'd never heard the term 'dark match' before a year ago. Now those two words together were the bane of his existence.

"So, spill it." Her eyes were half-closed, an expression of sheer boredom on her face as she watched Jackson shell out some bills for another round for his little gaggle of hangers-on.

"He's a wrestler, luv. Pretty popular, at tha'. Just won hisself the Hardcore Championship a couple weeks back." He did a mocking toast with his glass in that direction before draining the rest of the warm brew, letting out a belch as he set the glass down.

"No way." The girl turned her head, staring at him for a few seconds before she snapped back to her people watching. "That's why he looks familiar. Pretty sure I've seen him on TV, now that you mention it. So, we've got ourselves bona fide celebrity in our midst. Might just be the coolest thing that ever happened in this shithole." The girl pushed off from the wall beside him and slipped onto the stool next to him instead, clearly deciding he was harmless enough to engage. He wondered if she'd noticed the wedding ring, had picked up on that air of unavailable that he was doing his best to put out. He had never been one to consort with the bottom-feeder rats, those glorified groupies. Not that any of them really paid him more than a cursory glance. He was not (and would likely never be) the golden boy, after all.

The double meaning of her words was lost on him – he'd never considered himself to be a celebrity even though he had his own little pocket niche of fans. He'd lost at least 85% of his matches over the last couple years, all told. Wasn't much of a claim to fame.

The tender noticed her (and her empty glass) and came over immediately, dropping off another drink for her as though she came here often enough for him to remember her preferred poison. He also refilled Bruce's pint glass and the girl piped up. "Bring us a couple Polar Bear shots, too." The moment the man walked away to make the shots she'd ordered, the girl turned back to him. "So, how'd you get the scars?"

And here he'd thought the shadows he'd been lurking in and the two-days' worth of stubble on his cheeks were camouflage enough. Apparently not. He thought again about growing a beard rather than the goatee that only seemed to accentuate it. In the ring, when he was THE HIGHLANDER in a kilt over his trunks with that tin sword strapped to his back, though, the scars fit. They seemed less garish and more dashing, somehow. At least that was what he'd been told.

He remembered the legendary Nathanial Duke's advice in that instant.

"Shine them on," he'd said, talking to the rookies backstage. "It's all about building the brand. Give them little tidbits. Breadcrumbs, if you will. The clever ones will be hooked, and you can dole out a little more, get them to follow you right to the little candy shack in the woods. They need to relate to something – there has to be bait for the hook."

He looked up at the thump of the shot glasses on the bar, realizing the girl was still staring at him and she gingerly pushed one of them a little closer in his direction.

"C'mon. Bottom's up. And then you can tell me a story."

The true story wasn't good. It was depressing, filled him with equal measures of rage and loathing every time he thought about it. He'd been two weeks fresh in America from Glasgow and the Irish cousins had brought him round to Jimmy O'Riordan – he was a small-time thug with delusions of grandeur and too much clout. He'd had two of his goons hold Bruce down, carve up his face in a 'Glasgow Grin' so he never forgot where he came from. Branded permanently as the mutt of the bunch – destined to be less-than among the rest of the Hell's Kitchen Irish lads that were mostly his first and second cousins.

He reached for the glass, tilting it at her with a muttered, "do dheagh shlainte," in Scots Gaelic before tossing it back. It tasted like toothpaste and cinnamon were having an orgy in his mouth. Mixed with the beer, it felt like a molten ball of lead all the way down to his guts and he grimaced when it landed. "Nae, take it back... a thousand curses of poor health on your household."

Surprisingly, the girl laughed at his discomfort (or maybe his verbal reaction to it) before turning her head to look over in Jackson's direction again.

"See that patch of white on the back of his head," Bruce leaned in a little closer to the girl. "That's from a steel-toed boot... kicked 'im right in the ol' noggin a couple years ago. Hair went white a week later when the swellin' came down. They thought he'd fractured his skull but the fucker's got granite under all that hair, believe-you-me."  

It wasn't true. The injury had happened during a scaffolding match in 1997 and Jackson's back had been fractured in the fall after that botched kick with unsanctioned gear – it was a miracle that he'd recovered well enough to even get back into the ring, let alone drag Bruce along with him for the return. He'd stopped dyeing his hair last year, using the 'injury' for a feud. She didn't need to know the real story. The breadcrumbs were better, after all. "He got his revenge. Put him in the hospital – that's how he got that Hardcore championship. Was in Vancouver, the ring full of Canadian weapons. Lacrosse sticks an' the like. Ol' Jackie-boy broke a hockey stick over the fella's back then pulled his Maple Leafs sweater over his head-"

"Leafs fan?" The girl snickered, shaking her head. "Deserved what he got, then."

"Oh, aye. Jackie though, he wasn't done there. Fella's all hunched up, trapped up in that sweater – our man of the hour underhooked the arms an' the boy was caught up, no escape. BAM! Something Wicked right there on the fuckin' floor. Was a hell of a thing when he rolled that limp body back into the ring for the 1-2-3, claiming hisself that coveted prize."

It was. Poor Marcus Gratton would be lucky if he ever walked without a limp, let alone wrestled again, but he didn't tell her that. He didn't tell her that he thought Jackson always took things a little too far, spent too much time straddling the line and pushing the envelope as far as it could go. Too many risks, really but Bruce found himself just a little envious of that spotlight. Jackson was always making waves, racking up a list of fans and enemies alike everywhere he went while Bruce was content to play it safe. To bank on longevity rather than being the biggest, baddest flash in the pan. Maybe someday he'd see his payoff. Maybe he would just stick around long enough to make enough money to consider himself well-off and live to fight another battle on another front. He had a wife and daughter to think of, after all. Jackson was pure bachelor, flitting from one fling to another without any ties in the world.

The tap of his wedding ring against the pint glass drew the girl's attention back and he thought maybe she was going to press for more sordid details when she whipped her head around to stare at him, eyes wide. The silence stretched out for a moment while he took a drink from his beer, pulling a face at the conflict with the minty shellack that was still on his tongue thanks to that odious shot.

"Okay." She finally said and by the way she shifted on that stool, he assumed she was going to dismiss him and go running across the room to throw herself in some dramatic swoon at Jackson's feet. Instead, she shrugged and took a pull from the straw in her fizzy brown drink – he could only guess at what was mixed with the cola, if anything. "That's a cool story. But you still didn't answer me about the scars..."


Raab. The name is unique enough to ring a bell and if memory serves, the last time it was across a booking sheet against yours truly was eight years ago, almost to the date. I rubbed elbows in Louisville with a man who called himself "The Killerplauze". Not quite certain who he is to you and I'd rather avoid the lengthy Ancestry.com advertisement – I get enough of those when I'm watching my stories on Hulu (and yes, I'm well aware that I could shell out the extra few dollars to remove the commercial breaks). Forgive the dithering, hmm? It's been a hot minute since I sat down to do one of these little missives. A fella needs to find his groove, get those mojo juices running again.

The family's been kicking around this business nearly as long as I have (Lord Raab have mercy on us all). I'll admit, I don't know much about you, Jake. I've done the due diligence, dug up a few of your MMA matches from Germany – impressive, by the way. I saw that same fella make the shift to the squared circle and watched the spiral into nonsense and frustration. I feel like I've walked a mile in your shoes which brings me to the part of this little number where I put on my Wrestle Da cap and we have a nice little chat about your future. I see potential wasted. I see talent squandered and I see a young fella having that bright future tainted and darkened with each swipe from those traitorous guttersnipes.

Hate is a powerful tool, my friend. A bit of a double-edged sword and while it's fine to use it as fuel, one must be careful in the wielding not to draw the wrong blood. Cut yourself, sully the waters and the sharks will come a-circling as they're wont to do. But you know this, am sure. You've suckled at the teat of the Raab legacy long enough to know when to hold and when to fold, as the saying goes. You packed it in and headed for greener pastures more than once... or whiter beaches, as one finds on this lovely island paradise that I've grown quite fond of in recent weeks.

Ah, but let's talk about you, Raab. Let's dig a little deeper. You say you want respect, lament about the lack thereof via proxy to anyone who will listen.  

I understand that longing. Truly.

When I was your age – oh Jesus, the fucking cringe I can picture the moment those words leave anyone's lips – let me rephrase, hmm? About twenty years ago, I was just a fledgling fighter with a newborn tot at home. I was working for a company based out of Texas that was in its second year of touring the good ol' US of A, branching out in these ever-expanding circles to ensure the best sort of saturation. Worked for them for eight years, until they merged with another company and then went belly-up a few months later. This isn't a story about the World Class Wrestling Federation. It's not a story about putting in the work and being happy with minimal rewards because just being out there and being able to entertain the masses is payment enough. No.

It's a story about envy.

It's a story about avarice and hubris and the endless pursuit of elusive glory – it's a cautionary tale about wasting time and the poison that comes along with it.

We're all born with holes in us.

No, you fucking twat, I'm not being vulgar. I'm talking about what it means to be sentient, to have this higher evolved consciousness. There's an emptiness inside us that separates us from the animals. Some seek to fill this void by any means necessary, with ephemeral things like the acceptance and applause of strangers. Does this ring a bell, Raab? Does this strike close to home or have you already tuned me out in favor of staring at your own face in the mirror?

How does one become a 'Fiery Target'?

Are you filled with unstable elements that are bound to explode the moment you're struck?

Maybe there's something lost in translation from the original German? Either way, chasing clout… or respect, as it were, is a losing game. You can't force them all to love you. You'll never win over every single critic and in this day and age where the Cancel Culture twats are running amok, you're lucky if you can say something as simple as 'I put on my pants one leg at a time, the same as anyone else' and not be burned at the stake.

They're all up in arms now. Some people wear skirts, you know. Some people don't have two legs. Some people wear shorts. Some are nudists who eschew pants and their constrictive nature at all costs – HOW DARE YOU! YOU ARE THE WORST PERSON ALIVE.

And you've been cancelled, for something as simple as the recitation of a colloquialism at the wrong time.

Jesus wept.

What's the business coming to? What happened to the 'professional' part that used to come before, to signify that we were somewhat elevated beyond the collegiate pursuits and the backyard weekend brawlers? Ideally, this wouldn't be a prerequisite, this talking at length about the ways I'm going to go about winning another match here in DOMINION, about how I plan to add another name to the list of the fallen as I make my way towards PAREBELLUM at ARCADIA.

It's my John Wick moment – they all pushed the buttons. They pulled these words from me. Asking if I'm back. Yeah, I'm thinking I'm back. But for what? To what end? To prove that I'm better? More worthy of their cheers and applause? Less likely to burn up once the spotlight hits because I've grown thicker skin?

Hell, no. I want to take all these pages of my life and burn them away. I want to find a place where I can live on my own terms and do what makes me happy. Have I found it here? That remains to be seen, I suppose. It's full of promise, shiny and new all spread out before me. All these places I can go. All these new faces to dazzle and delight – new challenges await.

I suppose it's time to take my own advice, hmm? Shake off the past. Stop comparing myself to others, stop seeing those lines on my face, those that are now invisible to the naked eye but that I can still feel burning into me like a brand, forever marking me as nothing more than lesser-than.

I'm not. Every time I lace up these boots, I put more miles between myself and that line of thinking that was forced on me, carved into my flesh by cowards.

I guess that's what I've been trying to tell you, Raab. You're better than this grab-ass game of egos. You're better than the little box they tried to put you in and raging against the confinement rather than finding the key to unlock that door is the mistake they want you to make. Come with me.

We're heading somewhere better, where the illusion of their respect doesn't matter.

This is my swan song. This is my last hurrah and I'm marching steadfast into the future to plant a flag at the top of the summit. You're either with me, or you're another obstacle. The choice is yours, son.

Choose wisely.