Outsider, Looking In [2k CD, event #5]

"I just wanna make sure you know I'm still here. The irrational fear of bein' left behind, bein' forgotten if I drop off for even a second has always been the one I can't seem to shake. It's alright, though. I trust you – haven't done me dirty yet. Mainstream's been real good to me. Appreciate that more'n you know."

The sound of his own voice coming from the laptop's speakers made him cringe inwardly but he let last night's Mainstream show continue rolling. He was always in the habit of watching the replay back, making sure he didn't miss anything and when he heard Mckayla's voice on the heels of his little improvised promo, he seemed to perk up a little.

"…well, he's definitely not been forgotten because I have just been told that Lex Collins the Mainstream Wrestling United States Champion has been added to this year's Chase for the Crown Ladder match at the Six Year Anniversary in three weeks!"

"Huh," he muttered, "well how 'bout that." A title defence would have been preferable but he wasn't going to spit in the face of an appearance.

When Lex Collins had been offered 5BW's golden ticket for the WSOW, he'd been on the tail end of a two-week bender of bookings and the only thing the lizard brain piloting his otherwise empty shell was capable of grasping was the concept of EXPOSURE. He felt a chill crawling up his spine, steeling himself against the inevitable shudder, setting the novel down on the bedside table after fishing it out of his bag. The camera zoomed in on it immediately, showing the black duct tape that was wrapped around the spine, holding the dog-eared cover in place – THE OUTSIDERS by S.E Hinton. The poor paperback had probably seen some pretty dicey things over the years. Exposed was definitely how he felt now, trying to pretend the camera wasn't rolling as he puttered around the hotel room at The Luxor in Las Vegas. He was trying to pretend he hadn't gone through the room before their arrival, hiding the liquor bottles from the mini bar under the sink – the less temptation he saw, the better it would be in the long run. He'd picked today for the shadow because he knew he'd be in Vegas after Mainsteam's show the night before, knew he'd have some downtime to kill before a scheduled meet-and-greet in the afternoon at the flagship Brad's Toys & Collectibles. If the camera hadn't been here, he'd probably be on the phone to the airline, trying to change his flight to an earlier one, begging off that prior engagement – he was in a terrible headspace today. The sun was barely up and he was already wanting to cancel the day. How well would that play off, he wondered? Would anyone want to see an anxiety-ridden scrapper who wanted to spend the day in bed with the covers up over his head? Probably not.

Just stick to your normal routine. Pretend the cameras aren't here; you don't have to interact with them if you don't want to.

He remembered the instructions, wondering if that last part had been read off verbatim to the others, or they'd made a special effort to single him out for that known little quirk of his that had produced hundreds of black screen videos containing nothing but audio.

Thankfully there was a huge box of those bootleg Ramones tees in every size from XS to XXXXL. He knew the store had received a skid of them, too. Whatever didn't sell, he'd have shipped back to California but lately he'd had a hell of a time keeping them on hand. His stock was on the rise, as much as it pained him to accept. The more fame shone its spotlight on him, the more he felt like a bug under glass, one well-aimed sunbeam away from roasting under the attention.

A familiar sound from his laptop drew his attention and he favored the camera with a ghost of a smile as he minimized the video playback.

"FaceTime call with my kids," his voice came out too loud and he ducked his head for a second, dragging in a slow breath. He'd been quiet too long – could only wonder how much they'd end up with for the show after this went to editing.

He reached for the laptop, adjusting its position and making sure he was at least somewhat visible on camera before answering. The nightstand was behind his back, the bed to his right. He was sitting on the floor, despite how disgusting that might actually be. As far as dangerous things he did during the course of any given day, it was pretty tame. His wife's face filled the screen and his smile grew warmer.

"Hey, Han."

"Hey yourself." Her smile was gentle. She knew him well enough to know what it meant when he was on the floor with his back against something solid. She'd seen him doing that enough times when they were kids to know that he was having a bad day. The book she could see on the table behind his head was a pretty good clue, too. "I checked the tracking. They got your merch last night."

"Yeah," he nodded, "I know. Which is good. Worst case… I gotta bail early and I just give everyone something for free. Wouldn't be the first time."

That was an understatement. His entire championship run with Sin City wrestling back in 2015 had been defined by those weekly giveaways to the fans. It was easier to hand out something inanimate than take the lids off those carefully maintained boxes inside his head.

"How'd it go last night?"

"Bobby lost to Cartier – hella close match, though. The boys went out somewhere after. Consolation drinks, I think. I begged off. Told 'em I wasn't feeling the best. Not like it was a lie."

He'd had a bitch of a headache by then, brought on by the camera time he'd booked, forcing himself to reach out and connect with the people, despite how little emotional bandwidth he had left. All he wanted was a drink, just something to take the edge off. None of them knew he was in recovery. Even less people knew that it had been almost exactly four years since he'd gone cold turkey on the booze. It wasn't as though he advertised it or went to weekly meetings.

"I'm sure they understood. At least you showed up for support."

Lex chuckled. "Can always count on me for that."

"You're getting back tonight, right?" Hannah turned to look at something off screen.

"Yeah, but not early enough to hit the streets with the girls—"

"Oh, no. I didn't mean that. I just wanted to make sure—"

"DADDY!" The camera jostled and now his oldest daughter Allegra's face filled the screen. Her hair was styled in an elaborate updo, decorated with tiny red rose-shaped pins. With the flush of youth in her cheeks and a hint of pink gloss on her lips, she was the spitting image of her mother and it cut through him at the sight before he took in the yellow dress she had on. Of course, she was going out as Belle from Beauty and the Beast. It was a favorite movie in their household. He remembered the first time he'd seen the animated movie, when he was the same age as she was now. It felt like a lifetime ago.

"Look at you, Princess Peanut," the warmth in his voice was unmistakable, brimming with love. "If you wear that to school, you're gonna have hundreds of wannabe suitors knocking on your door tomorrow."

"I was just testing out the fit for tonight – they're doing a haunted house party at the community center and mom said we could go. Freddie's gonna be Lumiere."

"It'll be fun," Hannah cut in as her daughter dashed off, "they'll have music and candy and probably bobbing for apples—"

"Disgusting," he cut in, faking a shudder, "never saw the appeal in dunking your head in a big bowl of backwash and apples, even before the plague."

"I know." Hannah laughed, "but it'll be good for them to get out of the house for a few hours and see kids their age outside of the classroom." She fell silent for a moment and then tilted her head. "Are you okay, though?"

He'd been up since dawn, hadn't slept worth a shit the night before. He knew she could see all that written on his face, even without him dropping pebbles into the Internet pond. He'd learned better, to keep it all close to the vest. These days, the trolls were always circling, waiting for a slip and he didn't want to ruin the good thing he had going in 5BW and Mainstream.

"Yeah," when he finally broke the silence, it wasn't a lie. He felt infinitely better now. They always managed to ground him, keep him from that spiral and drifting too far from the shores of sanity. "I'm alright. Just tired. I'll grab a Red Bull on the way to the gig. Maybe two. I'll be fine."

"I love you," she replied, "we'll see you tonight, then. Safe travels."

"See you tonight," he echoed, reaching out to end the call. He'd completely forgotten the camera was there, recording all of this. Maybe that was a good thing.


The store was huge. When he walked out of the back room, what he saw made his heart skip a beat and he cycled through a thousand emotions before settling on humbled. There had to be a couple hundred fans in the line that snaked around the perimeter of the store. "You got someone else coming 'sides me?" He joked, but the owner shook his head.

"We'd probably have gotten more if we'd done more advertising. Lot of folks remember your run in Sin City—"

"Seven years ago," Lex cut the guy off with a rueful chuckle. "I barely 'member it."

He took another deep breath before stepping from behind the door. With his head down, he made his way over to the table, ignoring the ripple of noise that grew louder on his approach. Gingerly, he took the Mainstream US Championship off his shoulder and set it on the table next to the neat stack of 8x10's. It felt like a strange sort of irony to plunk down in the same kind of cheap folding metal chair that usually got bashed over his head. Reaching for a Sharpie from the pile on the table, he rolled it across his knuckles before pulling the cap off with his teeth, very much aware of the first few sets of eyes in line watching him as he lifted his head to make eye contact. The smile that came across his face was a little forced but it grew warmer when he saw the kid standing in front of the table. He had to be close to his daughter's age, flanked by his father. They were both in vintage tees, the dad sporting a MAXWELL MURDER one. Windy City, almost twenty years ago.

"Didn't know any of those were still around," he remarked, gesturing to the dad with the Sharpie.

"Pretty sure it's a bootleg – found it on eBay."

He laughed. The guy smiled. He signed their photo, took a picture with the kid and the championship belt. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Maybe today wouldn't be so bad after all. At least with the cameras here, there was recorded proof of him giving back to the fans who had been here with him through all the ups and downs. He owed them that, after all. Without them, he'd be nothing more than another back-alley brawler with scarred knuckles, a broken nobody. Now, it felt like it meant something. To them, it clearly did and he felt less like a fraud. That was something.