FIFTY-TWO: The Fallacy of Epiphany [WW #6]

The night stretched before him like a thousand shades of grey, tinted by the jaundiced half-full moon in the sky. He looked down at the courtyard below, a furrow slashing down between his dark eyebrows like an exclamation point as he drew the smoke into his lungs – he'd found the damnable thing deep in his gear bag, half the tobacco liberated from its paper and sifting around the bottom like sand that would never really disappear. It was stale-as-fuck – he didn't care. Right now, he needed that old familiar vice. He needed a throwback ritual to ground him back in the moment. He'd been wearing the good guy mask for too long, had taken for granted that it would never slip – had assumed, really, that the time to remove it would never come again.

"...almost none of you have been to war." Bishop's words kept circling in his mind, and he knew if he let it, the poison would turn everything necrotic. He could tear this place down to its foundations. He could eliminate these pathetic little whelps who'd come crawling towards the island's bounty from their far-flung homes, desperate to fill their bellies.

"Not on my watch," Bruce muttered, flicking the cigarette away and watching as it spiralled down into the gloom. From this vantage point, he felt like a king – the view was undeniable even as the sun broke over the horizon. The part that sucked was that he'd actually been starting to love this place. It had started to feel like home.

Everything the light touches is our kingdom.

He sighed, shaking his head at the intrusive thought. Even now, everything was jumbled, as if all the lids had come off all the carefully organized boxes. The demons had torn through like a gale force wind, scattering everything. Gravel crunched under his feet as he made his way back to the door and stepped inside, pulling out the folded piece of cardboard he'd put there to prevent it from locking behind him. His footfalls echoed in the stairwell as he slowly made his way down one level, shoulder bumping the wall every few steps.

The door swung open without a sound, and he stepped across the threshold with a weary sigh. He stomped his feet, shaking off the numbness before kicking off the trainers he'd had on. Silence reigned supreme, the darkness absolute as he crossed the oversized living room, tossing the keys on the counter even as his eyes were drawn to the floor-to-ceiling windows and the view beyond. The other building was a little shorter, still tall enough to break the sun as it wasn't high enough in the sky yet, but he still reached for the little smartpad that controlled everything inside this ultra modern prison. The blinds drifted shut without a sound and he sat down heavily on the leather couch, propping his feet up on the table. "Fuck me," he growled, shaking his head before reaching up to rub his face. Clammy sweat there, and everywhere else. He'd been out all night again, calling it reconnaissance even though it was starting to feel a whole lot like something else. He was exhausted but everything was sharply in focus. He was wide awake, now.

All the ducks, all the facts were lined up in a neat little row, just like the weapons he'd laid out on the kitchen counter: hunting blades, mostly. He didn't want to have to pull a trigger on anyone – wasn't even sure if that was something sanctioned for this nonsense, even if they'd been shown that array of weapons in the warehouse for all the world to see. He knew the weight of all of them, the oldest having been with him since the Circuit days, made of a diamond and ceramic composite that wouldn't set off any metal detector. The black blade was sharp enough to slice through bone (if it came to that). He hoped it wouldn't, but he'd steeled himself for the eventuality. Let the rest of the wannabe pale riders quote Metallica lyrics and spew angst-ridden missives from their pulpits and soap boxes. He was banking on being invisible, on being overlooked and written off, right until the very last moment – it would make taking the whole thing far easier.

He'd clocked them all. Knew where they were staying.

The table held a half full bottle of Jameson, and a glass that was filled with an inch of scummy water. Bruce turned over the glass, dumping the water on the monochromatic carpet that sat under the coffee table. He hated the thing on principle. It looked like something Patrick Bateman would have had in his apartment. Uncapping the bottle, he filled the tumbler with almost obsessively deliberate motions. The glass, smeared with old spittle and flecks of dried skin rose to Bruce's lips, and he took a long swallow. Breathing out slowly, he surveyed his kingdom. Shrouded in gloom, reeking of excess – it didn't suit him whatsoever, but it felt nice to be given something that made him seem like he'd finally made it, especially after all this time.

Maybe he'd prove worthy.

That would be fantastic.

He leaned forward, pulling off the sweat-soaked tank that had the word TWAT on it, wadding it between his hands. Flexing his stiff, thick fingers, he felt the tension, radiating right down to his fingertips. Another week, another ten thousand plus minutes wasted on the road towards death.

ALL ROADS LEAD TO ARCADIA.

He dropped the damp cotton, eschewing that tactile comfort for the smooth, clean lines of the bottle. Much better. He moved to his feet, liquid grace, limber enough that nothing popped. He'd been working hard on his flexibility, on his range of motion – a mix of yoga and the Systema that he'd picked up from the Russians helped. He set the now-empty bottle down on the table next to that filthy glass.

The pad was back in his hand and he tapped another button, hidden speakers coming to life with the soothing sounds of that melancholy sax introduction to Coltrane's 'A Love Supreme’. Heading into the bathroom that was bigger than their living room back home, he turned the cold knob in the shower and a moment later he was under that rainfall, sluicing off the sticky film of sweat and grime from his body.

"Bruce?" His wife's voice came through the patter of the water against glass and tile, and the pounding of his pulse in his ears. He could see her out of the corner of his good eye. Barely-there silhouette on the other side of the glass.

"Cherry." He sounded like he'd been taking voice lessons from Tom Waits – whiskey-soaked and cigarette-burned for a thousand years. Cold water rolled over his face, filling his mouth. He spat it at his feet, seeing the blood there mixed with the saliva and wondering where that was from.

"You were out all night."

"Lost track of time." Another day he might have offered her a gesture of some sort, but he was slipping, teetering on the precipice.

"Where were you?" Twenty questions. Great.

"Told ya. Scouting. Gotta have this down. Can't afford..." he trailed off, not wanting to articulate those words. Putting them out there gave them too much power.

"I know." Those hands of hers were still pressed against the glass, as though it were a lifeline. "Can I come in?"

He said nothing. A moment later the door was opening, and she slipped inside, naked with bed-tossed hair and wild eyes. It wasn't fear he saw. It was a ferocious and almost animal determination. "Hold me?"

Warm hands touched his chest, slipping in the soap that hadn't rinsed away as she pushed against him, seeking his warmth under the onslaught of the cool water. She looked at his face. Bloodshot eyes, dilated pupils. Blood trickled from a ragged scrape on his arm – she wondered if he even knew it was there. She cuddled against him; her face pressed against the wet hair on his chest and all the words she could have said were locked in her throat behind that huge lump that had been there for more than a week. The heat leached from his skin under the onslaught of the water, and he felt her shivering, reaching out to adjust the temperature.

Somehow, he'd found a way to break himself after all these years. No amount of salting and burning was going to purge these ghosts. He had to face it, had to make peace with the demons before he could even think about waging war. The irony wasn't lost on him. This was a breakthrough, the kind people paid good money in therapy for. He hated himself for all the lies, for locking it all inside for too long and now it was this festering pustule that was going to burst and ruin everything that was ever good.

That fact moved him. Tears fell from his eyes, mingling with the water. One arm twitched before wrapping around her waist – he needed the closeness just as much as she did. He bent his head, letting the pain wash over him in waves. It wasn't physical. It was a decade of pent-up bullshit rolling over him like a tsunami – he remembered Jaxon's death, remembered his first time in that painted circle on that warehouse floor a few weeks later, throwing bombs as though it was the only way to purge the darkness that had taken root deep within him.

"It's okay," Charity whispered, her hand pressing to his cheek, thumb tracing the line of the scar even though it was hidden beneath his beard. "You're the strongest man I know, Bruce. You can do this – whatever it takes. And I'll still be here. Victor and Sam and I will all still be right here, waiting for you to take us home."

She tilted her chin, meeting his gaze. His eyes bored into hers, reflecting anguish and that shell-shocked pain. She staggered as she pushed against him, and he caught her effortlessly as her feet slipped on the slick tiles. Flesh-wrapped steel supported her as he shoved her against the wall, his lips finding hers for the only affirmation he needed in that moment.


I have this rare talent of ending up in these kinds of matches, don't I? The Triad Challenge last year was a big one, a veritable who's-who of the wrestling business with legends like Mr. Rottentreats, JVD and Adrien Cochrane in it. Funny, I didn't see anyone named Dickenson or Slayer or Bishop there. Funny that when I was specifically invited to compete in the Roth Invitational tournament a couple months ago that not a single one of these dingleberries were anywhere in the mix – oh but they want me to care about how they defined the WHOGIVESAFUCK SCARY BOI CHAMPIONSHIP for the last year. Never heard of it. Sounds stupid. Sounds made up, if I'm being honest. Another wants me to to care about how they "wage war (in the ring) and leave women and children screaming and crying after every match". Another wants everyone to click subscribe and listen as they recite all their issues from some dark room. Same bat time, same bat channel. Next week it'll be in HD. Next week it'll be even more angsty.

They want to steal and squander the precious time I have left.

Fuck right off with that nonsense.

Have you ever been to WAR? In the trenches, on the front lines, we're all just bodies. Sentient weapons and nothing more. There are no laurels here. Accolades won't form a shield against projectiles. A bullet can't be reasoned with, can't be bored by a deluge of recitation. I don't think any of you understand that. Ah, but cast those aspersions. Go on with it.

Call me names. Sling the dirt around. Call me addled. Tell me I don't matter, despite never having been pinned in this company. Don't bother to do any research whatsoever outside of looking at my picture on the promotional material – write me off as a joke, as some washed-up old fart grasping at glory.

If you knew where I'd been, you wouldn't put me in that category.

Self-doubt slaps me back into place with a nice backhand borne of nostalgia – self-loathing comes in with the sucker punch a moment later. Keep me on the backfoot because heaven forbid I puff up my chest and crow.

What's the party line, again? Ah, yes. I'm too old. Scraping the bottom of the talent barrel. I'm running dry, and these old bones can't handle a little punishment. To hell with that noise. I've spent the last few nights behind the tree-line, watching you. You never saw me there. You never even bothered to turn your head and look, so overconfident and vain. Fixated on someone else, fixated on fighting fire with fire in some effort to burn it all to the ground.

That's not how this works.

It's all on the inside, walking around and seeing myself in your eyes. Oh, to be so young, so damned naïve. I used to get high on delusions, too. I used to believe that hard work would pay off. I believed that I could stay on the right side of the line and the world would eventually come around. I know the truth now. I know that I was lying to myself for years. I know that it was cowardice that kept me in the shadows rather than an altruistic desire to see others thrive.

I didn't think I was worthy.

Here it is, the epiphany on that dark road, hitting out of the blue. It's the 'come to Jesus' moment that's been romanticized so much and when the delusions crumble, it hurts. This is what it feels like to fall from grace, wax wings melted under those hot, hot lights – nobody was there to catch you because you alienated them all. You no-sold the world, painted everyone in shades of less-than. The gutter stinks. It's teeming with snipes, all these hungry mouths and gnashing teeth who want nothing more than to bleed you dry, keep you there for an eternity and feed on you. They don't want to see you succeed. They'll drain you and clamber over and under and through until you're nothing more than a husk, a stepping stone, useless chaff to blow away into the wind. They won't mourn your passing. They don't want you to leave and if you manage to break free, the moment that light hits you again, it'll showcase that filth that you're never going to shake off again. They got their hooks in you. They perverted you.

What's worse, though, is the KNOWLEDGE that you fucked up. This is on you. The weight of the consequences bowing your shoulders, breaking your back. Oh, but you'll laugh it off. Say it didn't matter. It was just a lark. A blow-off. A thing you did for fun (even though it stole twenty-one days of your life that you're never getting back).

You claimed you had it in the bag and now you're coming home with your tail between your legs, scalded and wounded. They'll never let you live it down.

I won't either.

And when you crawl back to the boiler room, when you take off that mask and wipe the blood that's been drawn from those old scars you thought would never open again, you can curse my name. You'll be forced to swallow the bitter pill, face the wall of words that you used to build yourself up as it crumbles and buries you – you'll go home and claw your way back into the thick of things on familiar territory. You'll tell yourself 'never again' about an event like this and maybe it'll stick. Maybe ten years down the road when you're still the HORRORCORE CHAMPION OF PUTRESCENCE PEAK, you'll venture from that safe space again. You'll poke your little groundhog head from the hole and make sure no shadows loom over. Is it safe now? Can I breathe again?

This is what it feels like to be on the other side.

This is what it feels like to be me.

It's bright out. Can you feel the heat? It's not a nice feeling, is it? It's too revealing. It's too much, too bright. You didn't expect anyone to see past that wall you built but now the light of truth is blinding, shining right through you. Lighting up every flaw and revealing you for the joke you truly are. Scared, bleating little sheep. Sad little paper champion. Pretender. Poser.

Hollow and transparent.

This is not a deathbed confession. This is not a sermon from the mount of pretension nor is it any sort of declaration of intent.

I've been watching you for a while now. I know who you are. I know where you are.

This is my moment. I told you already but it bears repeating. I'm going to destroy you, all of you. Usurper. Poser. Fraud. Freak. You don't belong here. This is MY island. MY TERRITORY.

I'm coming for you.

PARA. BELLUM.