FIFTY-ONE: A Little Bit Off Today [WW#5]

A thousand sibilant whispers filled his head when he closed his eyes – the wind through the palm fronds was a sort of alien white noise that still caught him off-guard, after all this time in Vegas. The damned things were everywhere, dotting the medians along the strip – crowded like tourists around the WELCOME TO LAS VEGAS sign, doing their best to pretend they belonged, and he wondered if any of the ones there remembered a time that they were planted in that foreign Nevada soil.

When in doubt, go native, he thought.

He understood how that felt, to be the outsider trying like hell to gather more like-minded souls in an effort to blend in. Strength in numbers or somesuchshit. An alien invasion on the most pathetic scale known to man. Flora and fauna and a catastrophic meltdown to the local ecosystem--

"Fuck."

Taking in a deep breath, Charity paused in the doorway. The air here on the island felt cleaner somehow, like they were in some magical bubble where the rest of the world hadn't poured out its caustic taint. There were no nutbar anti-vaxxers protesting, no idiots filling fast food cups and trash bags to hoard gasoline. It felt like an extended vacation. It looked like one, on the surface, and she wanted so badly to swallow that lie and wrap its warmth around the chill that had settled into her core. She watched Bruce lift his hand to his lips, watched the minute tremors and the skunky-sweet smell of weed wafted on the breeze, reminding her of those halcyon years before adulthood had come calling far too early. She watched as he moved closer to the edge, leaning on the glass railing – she hated it. Couldn't bring herself to get that close to the edge because of that optical illusion that had her feeling vertigo – one step too far and she was in for a big fall. Maybe they both were.

"You're up early," she remarked softly, feeling the need to break the silence before she started imagining something malignant in its weight.

"Aye. Jus' a little bit off today. It'll right itself." His eyes were bloodshot as they swiveled to hers and it was easy to tell herself he was only tired, just stressed about this upcoming clusterfuck of a three-week match. As though to punctuate her thought, he tilted his coffee mug at her and then took a long swallow, sighing on the exhale and that furrow between his brows smoothed out just a little. He jiggled the cup, making the liquid slosh inside. "There's more, if you're interested."

The bungalow had provided appliances, one of those damned Keurig pod machines that he loathed so for this trip he'd brought a replica of the one they had at home – some rituals were not meant to be broken or tampered with, after all. He was very particular about his coffee.

She declined the offer with a quick shake of her head. "Vee tweeted about getting a boat off the island," she murmured, shaking her head again as she laughed softly in relaying that information, "I don't think she was kidding, either."

He snorted with derision, shaking his head. Nobody in this match was remotely prepared for it. He'd managed to avoid being drafted to war – he was born the same year the US involved themselves in Vietnam. He'd avoided the bullshit in the Middle East, knowing that enlisting would have been easier as a backdoor into permanent citizenship, but his daughter was a toddler when that crisis was at its height. He'd thought that doing battle inside a wrestling ring, in those shitty little underground clubs and rec centers was some noble pursuit – it had been easier in the past few years to think back on those two years legitimately fighting for his life in that painted circle as a survival song. Now he just felt old and foolish. "She'd be better off staying out of it." Of all the names in the mix, Victoria Strader was the one he wanted to lay hands on the least. He liked her. She reminded him far too much of his own headstrong daughter. He knew he was going to have to cross lines he'd drawn years ago. He was not looking forward to that prospect in the least.

"It's not too late to do the same," she slipped up behind him, trying to ignore the vertigo as she wrapped her arms around him. Beneath the old muscle tee he had on, his skin felt cold and unyielding, and she wondered how long he'd been out here, if he'd even slept at all.  

"Don't start that," he muttered. "Never balked at a fight. Showed up to that burning dumpster fire in Edmonton-"

"I know." She cut off that tirade with a snippy tone, knowing she was the only one who could get away with that without raising his ire. "I just hate seeing you like this." What she really hated most was feeling helpless, like she was traipsing through a minefield in moon boots, without any sort of control whatsoever. She couldn't shake the feeling that she'd lose him soon, that she'd wake up to a call one of these mornings to find some stranger on the stoop with that look of someone who drew the short straw and now must deliver the news that will completely shatter lives. This place was supposed to be better. Safer – he'd promised her that. He'd spent almost a year vetting the place, watching from afar because he was loath to make the commitment to a place that had its own little insular world without knowing there was a sure-fire exit strategy.

Her fingers stole up to that spot above his shoulder blade to that puckered circle of scar tissue, tracing the edges that time had worn smooth and thinking about all the times lazy bottom feeders had tried to take something from her husband that they had no right to – he was never meant to be a victim. Now, pressed against his back as he finished off that coffee in silence, she couldn't help the foreboding that crept over her, slithering down her spine as icy dread to land in the pit of her stomach as leaden certainty. She'd been here before, years ago. It was hard not to think about it now...


Charity Donimari had just finally managed to fall asleep when her cell phone had gone off. Upon waking up from the ringer and catching sight of the clock on the bedside table, panic immediately seized her. Nothing good came from a phone call in the middle of the night. Her first instinct was that something had happened to her daughter Sam who had been away for the weekend with her friends. Something had happened, but it had been to her ex-husband Bruce – she'd thought he was gone by now, headed back to his life in Vegas after making that token appearance for his daughter's high school graduation. The nurse on the other end of the phone didn't give her much information, just that Bruce had been involved in some kind of accident and he was in the ER. She wasted no time in getting herself out of bed, throwing on a pair of shorts and an old t-shirt. Charity only took a few moments to throw her hair up into a messy bun and brush her teeth. Within five minutes after getting the phone call, she was out the door and on her way to the hospital.

It was only when she made her way through the ER's entrance that she remembered the last time she'd been here. It was years back when they'd learned that the baby she'd been carrying had died in the womb. Shaking her head, as if to shake the memories away, the blonde went to the front desk. When she'd proven who she was and why she was there, she was taken back to triage. There was a curtain that had been pulled shut to give Bruce his privacy – with how vague the woman on the phone had been, she'd expected instead to be escorted down to the morgue to identify a body. This was only marginally better and as she slipped inside the room, she couldn't help the tears that pricked her eyes or the lump in her throat. The last thing she wanted was for their last words to each other to be hateful.

Silently, she prayed he would be okay as her hand came up and pulled back the curtain, heart sinking to her feet as she saw him lying on that hospital bed, ashen and immobile. "Bruce?" She whispered his name and when he didn't move, she felt those tears break free. There was a chair next to the bed and she sank into it, leaning forward to grasp the rail of the bed he lay in. "I... I'm so sorry. Please..." her voice broke, "please don't leave me."

A rough chuckle came from between his lips, startling her so much she gasped and when she looked up, his eyes were open, bloodshot and dead black as they focused on her.

"Nae's bad's it looks," he managed to mutter before letting his eyes drift closed again. He was high as a kite thanks to the painkillers they'd given him, and he wasn't sure if he was actually seeing Charity or just her face on one of the nurses that had been in to check on him.  

"Oh, Baby." She felt the tears well up all over again as she stared at him. "I never should have left you." Biting down on her lower lip, she gripped the bedrail tighter. More than anything, she wanted to hug onto him and never let go again but was terrified to even touch him. "They called me and told me you'd been hurt. Jesus, what happened?"

His chuckle was raw, devoid of any kind of warmth. "Went for a wee little constitutional, got the 'welcome back' party I always dreamed of." The sarcasm was thick, oozing from every word. "Little cunt should've known better – can't kill whit's already dead, hmm?"

His words came across all wrong, making her grimace. She felt that twisting pang in her chest, knew it was because she still loved him more than anything. Seeing him like this, covered in dried blood in a hospital gown was terrifying and she couldn't shake the feeling of how every time they'd been here in the past, someone had died. Their baby. Her father. Bruce's cousin Maureen. So much loss, so much pain and suffering had soaked into these walls over the years, and she could feel the oppressive weight on her shoulders now.

Tears dripped off the end of her nose as she bowed her head, looking down at the scuffed toes of her shoes against the dingy linoleum. "Are you..." she stopped, not sure how to ask, "is it bad?" The temptation to touch him was strong, but she kept her hands on the railing.

"Just more scars for the collection." He replied, "getting hurt's what happens between the wins and losses, remember?" Sounded so cool and clever to spin it like that, like he was the Dalai Lama of grappling – for a moment, it was easier to pretend it was nothing, play it off like another day at the proverbial office, as though his life was in danger more often than not. He hid his right hand under the sheet, not wanting her to see the bandages wrapped around it, not wanting her to know what he'd done to another human being.

The snark brought her more relief than she'd expected. If he were well enough for that acid wit, she knew he'd make it through. It was the heavy silence that scared her more than anything. "Did they say when you can get out of here?"

"Tomorrow, mebbe? The bullet went clean through, didn't hit anythin' vital. Little bunged up, bruised an' the like but nothing a few weeks of lollygaggin' in bed won't fix." He hated the concern in her tone, the way she was looking at him as though he was made of glass and all he could smell was that astringent antiseptic, more a burn in his sinuses than an actual smell.

"I see." Charity leaned back in the chair. "Are you going back to the hotel, then?" The way she said it made it clear she was asking if he could afford it more than anything. That close to Central Park, there was no way the rates were cheap and again, she wondered as she had when she'd gone to see him if he'd booked a room there to show off. "Are you flying back to Vegas right away?"

He said nothing, staring up at the acoustic tile ceiling as though it had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the room. Whatever they had him on was starting to wane, the dull ache in his shoulder making him want to snap at her for insinuating he couldn't afford a longer stay.

"At least a week," he finally broke the silence, "mebbe there. Mebbe somewhere else." The realization that he hadn't actually checked out of the hotel, that he wasn't even sure what day it was now wasn't lost on him for an instant.

The thought of leaving him on his own when he was in this state was making her uncomfortable. "After you get discharged, do you have anywhere to stay?"

He thought about being flip with her, about blowing it off but the fact that he could have died wasn't lost on him for a moment and he sighed before averting his gaze. "Am sure my things're still over at the Residence Inn. Never checked out."

"I'll get your things," she said, not even thinking about it before the words left her mouth. "You can come home. Stay with me – with us. Sam will be back tomorrow. You promised you'd have dinner with her, remember?"

So, it was Monday. He'd lost the weekend and now that missing time was burning a hole in his pocket, making him feel worse. Had he spent it bleeding out in that piss-soaked alley next to that junkie? Had he been here, locked in limbo and lost in the dark? The more he probed at that hole in his memories, the vaster it seemed, and he remembered voices, speaking over him.

"The other guy didn't make it..."

"...probably a drug deal gone wrong."

"Jesus, look at his hand. Skinned right down to the bone. How do you figure that happened?"

He tensed, eyes squeezing shut as his mind recoiled from that prospect. There had been enough blood on his hands without this.

"Bruce?" Her hand touched his arm and she smiled with relief when his gaze met hers again. "Hey... it's okay. Sam doesn't know anything if that's what you're worried about. They didn't even give me any details before I came down here. I figured when we knew you were okay..."

"No need," he brushed it aside, shaking his head and then grimacing at the pain in his shoulder as it flared to life, white-hot and angry. "Am alright, luv. All parts accounted for. Let her enjoy this little time away with her friends. She's earned it."

Seeing him grimace made her wince as she was ready to jump out of her seat to get him whatever he needed. "Then it'll be our secret." Clearing her throat, her hand came up and rubbed the back of her neck. "Is there someone you want me to call? Yanno, to let them know you're okay?" She was very obviously fishing to find out if he'd moved on.

"The school... in Vegas. They'll be expectin' me back on Thursday for drills. Mebbe..." he was going to say someone should tell Grace but now that he was here and halfway doped up on meds, he couldn't remember when and even if he'd told her that he was returning at a specific time. He missed her blatant attempt to fish for information, waving the question off. "I'll message Larry later on. Give him the details."

Charity hadn't even realized she'd been holding her breath until an exhale slipped out. "Then come home with me. I don't have any shoots until next week. You should have someone with you, Bruce. Someone who—" she broke off, shaking her head because she'd almost put both feet in her mouth with that little sentiment but he knew where her head was at.

"C'mere, love." He held out his hand to her, wondering if she'd take it. He wouldn't blame her if she didn't. "Dunno what providence brought you here tonight... don't rightly care, neither. Just lemme... I gotta know if you're truly here or this is all some elaborate dream while I'm bleedin' out in the middle of the road."

Hearing that pet name caused any resistance she may have felt to crumble. She took his hand and entwined her fingers with his. "I'm here, Bruce. Nowhere else I wanna be." She used her feet to scoot her chair closer, not wanting to lose the physical contact. "No matter what happens, I'm always here for you. All you have to do is ask."

His attempt to self-destruct in a valuable way was a bust. Now, half-baked on painkillers and blood loss, he was having trouble re-connecting the dots but there was still that ingrained certainty that it had been the best plan ever. Dimly, he was aware of the basest urges, the dark things in the depths of his psyche that had led him to Tibor Petrov's fight Circuit after the loss of his only begotten son. He'd wanted an easy way out without facing the truth that he was a coward. Instead, he'd found strength and resilience he hadn't known and all those carefully-laid plans to disappear and leave his estranged wife and daughter with a huge windfall of cash in his wake had fallen by the wayside. They didn't need him. If this weekend had been proof of anything, it was evidence of that. Of course, most of the shit in his life had stopped making sense about three years ago.

The silence stretched out too long, grew too awkward and it was then that he realized she was still holding his hand and the rush of feeling was so overwhelming that he had to close his eyes and hold his breath. She'd come back and he knew deep down that he couldn't keep the lie going forever. Eventually the truth about what he'd been up to in Vegas was going to come out. "Fuck," the word was a mantra, an exhalation, the only damn word that made sense these days but it spilled from his lips with that hoarse whisper and then he turned his head to fix those sunken and bloodshot eyes on her. "Cherry-love..." her name trembled on his lips, fell off into silence and he didn't know what else to say.

There was something in his tone, something in his expression that terrified her in the worst sort of way and even though he was right here, breathing and talking with his warm hand in hers she felt like he was slipping away all over again. Swallowing back that panic, she lifted her other hand and pushed his hair back from his brow, fingers running through his hair the way they had at least a thousand times before. "Don't," her voice came out soft, almost an admonition, but there was that underlying thread of acceptance. She knew there was no going back, no matter what delirious promises he was about to make. She'd heard it before and the thought of losing him again was too much to bear. "I'm here..." she whispered, leaning in to kiss him gently on the forehead before pulling back to look deep into his eyes. She saw fear deep in their depths and she wasn't sure what that meant. She'd never seen him so shell-shocked before and it cut right through her, making her want to bury him in an avalanche of hugs and kisses and promises that she knew would end up broken. "You're safe, Bruce. You're gonna be okay. Nothing's gonna take you from us. Not now. Not any time soon..."


Non timebo mala.

I will fear no evil.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.

Walk softly. Carry a big stick. Don't go alone. There's strength in numbers. You can't trust anyone else. Be fearless. Be feckless. Be relentless. Be seen. Don't oversaturate. Be heard. You talk so much you worry my breath. Sleep with one eye open. Don't sleep. Don't even blink.

There are far too many schools of thought – too much white noise to wade through and it all just exhausts me in the worst way. At this stage of the game, I don't require sleep (at least that's what I tell myself). In these twilight hours, I'm lucky to get an hour's worth of blackout time before I'm up again. That, in and of itself, is a sort of conditioning though, isn't it? Aye, 'tis. Two decades down the drain in this business, dedicated to this sad little pursuit of chasing glory – you lazy little cunts're wont to tell me that I've not earned it? That I'm not ready?

JESUS WEPT.

Do you find it difficult to lace your own wrestling boots and breathe at the same time?

How many of you will I have to leave flattened in my wake before the blinders drop off? How many heads need to roll? How much blood needs shedding?

Every last one of you are in for a hell of a reckoning. Three weeks' battling the odds... you think the man with the near-spotless singles record in 2021 can't hang with these yappy, young pups? All these mouths moving, all these salty little barbs being flung about.

"You're not good enough."

I'm paraphrasing, of course. Would never dream of giving this oft-regurgitated nonsense more traction. It's a total fabrication, the lazy arsehole's version of a whitewash. See a dusting of snow on the roof and write a fella off. Fuck me running – is this what it's come to? Is this the future of the business, then? We've cast all the legwork to the wayside in favour of thirst traps and generic MADLIBS insults? Insert any name in the blank space – you've a 9/10 chance of being right and even a blind fool can hit the broadside of a barn if he throws a big enough handful of stones.

Last night I was roaming the island after dark, seeing it with a hunter's eyes. To hell with the sheep's clothing they want to force on me. They say I don't know when to quit. Past my prime, clinging to some gilded history they couldn’t even bother to look into. If they had, they would know how much of a slight that truly is. Ah, but see, ol' Knoxy and I are taking up space that should be filled by someone younger, more talented – it's survival of the FITTEST. You understand what that means, don't you? If I weren't able to keep up, do you think I'd have been the first choice for DOMINION? Scratch your head and think on that one a little while, hmm?

You're reaching too hard, lovelies. Looking up at the stars, and thinking someday you're gonna make it up there if you just bust ass hard enough. Reality is you're not. Ever. Not talking glass ceilings here, or paradigms, or any of that other cop-out bullshit. I'm talking about those stars and how they're echoes. It's a distortion, time-delay. We'll never make it up there into the books of legends because by the time that happens, we're already dead. Burnt out.

I asked Johnny-boy about the stars. I asked him if he had ambition, if he had any big dreams. I didn't really get an answer.

I'd ask the same of the rest of yous, but I already know enough to have a bad taste in my mouth. The stars are dead. Is that where you want to end up? Another ball of gas, another faded echo of something that's already in the past. Past tense. Has-been. So, you keep on looking at those stars, you keep right on reaching for the spotlight. You'll never find yourself in that light long enough for it to warm you.

PARABELLUM.

Si vis pacem, para bellum.

If you want peace, prepare for war. If you want a hero, light a fire under an ordinary man's ass. Get mad. Are you? Ah, you will be when it's all said and done. In the meantime? Fuck glory. Forget about that Territorial Championship shot – are you still alive? Still pretending you're prepared for battle? There's no such thing for anyone with an ounce of sanity. Believe me.

Call your priest. Make funeral arrangements. Have someone on hand to administer those last rites – I can almost smell death in the air. Looking up at the cold, dark sky, and the half-full moon I can feel the prickle on my skin. There's an electric charge on the wind, a low buzz. You think I'm unworthy?

I don't think you understand just how much that sets me off. Barred from the gates of paradise after all I've given to get here? No. Let's skip the goddamn formalities, shall we? Skip right to the point. I'm not about playing victor or victim. War doesn't do that. It creates casualties indiscriminately. You think you can survive weeks of being hunted, of having a price on your head and a countdown clock running towards the end?

I HAVE LIVED THAT FOR THE LAST TWO YEARS.

Not a single one of you could last a day on this road, rest assured. Every single breath brings me closer to that end and I'm not falling for your Darwinian game. This isn't 'professional wrestling' for the ten of us. It's life and death. That's THE reality.

My borrowed time is almost up, and every second ARCADIA looms closer, the more I'm convinced I won't make it to the end of the year in one piece, let alone the end of the month. I'll probably be maimed on the first night for daring to speak my piece – YOU CAN ALL FUCK RIGHT OFF.

The prospect of another stare-down with Death in a dark alley doesn't scare me. I welcome it with open arms. If you learn nothing else from me before that knife slips between your ribs, silent and stealthy, know this: I've been counted out more times than there have been days in your pathetic existence. I'm still here. Survival is a work of art, a song meant to be blasted at top volume. Delusion? No. It's reality and it's exactly like a headlock. Slip in, slip under, slip out. Do what you were born to do, what you can do without any thought at all – go for the break. Go for the ropes. It's all about lasting until the end of the count. See, fellas?

Listen close. Can you hear it? It's in the wind. The survival song's getting louder. The war drums have joined in and it's building to a crescendo. Soon enough it'll blot out everything, drowning out all that well-meaning and utterly empty bullshit you've all been screaming from the rooftops. You hoped I'd turn tail and run. Sorry to disappoint. This is my last hurrah. This is my motherfucking SWAN SONG and I'll be damned if I'm not going down swinging. I'll be damned if I'm not going to take out every last one of you as collateral damage.

PARA BELLUM.

Everything's a wrestling metaphor when you look close enough. Even this.

Especially this.