QUESTIONS & ANSWERS (CHAPTER 14: Of Mice and Men) [iiw]
Apr 8, 2023 8:59:53 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Apr 8, 2023 8:59:53 GMT -5
Rock Hill, NY ||| April 1, 2023
(off camera)
It had been a dark and stormy night, the perfect cliche after one hell of an emotional rollercoaster of an afternoon. The unexpected delivery had been taken out to the woodshed, stashed away in the safe that he wasn’t even sure his wife knew about. She’d gone to bed almost immediately after the incident. He’d spent all night awake, pacing through the rooms, checking and rechecking to make sure every lock was secure and every one of the perimeter cameras were recording. The last thing he wanted was another home invasion, especially knowing now how fragile his seven-month pregnant wife truly was.
The day was uniformly grey, rain still pattering on the roof and sliding down the skylight when he finally succumbed to the exhaustion and crawled into bed with her. Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, he wrapped his arms around her gently, trying his best not to disturb her too much.
A soft smile crossed her face as she felt that familiar and comforting warmth envelop her. LJ's eyes opened as she turned her head and looked around. Sev was laying next to her, his tattooed arms wrapped around her body so that one hand rested protectively on her pregnant stomach. The longer she laid there, the more effort it seemed to take to get her head clear; the more she laid there, the clearer the picture of the night before became until she could feel that anxiety creeping back, eroding away at the peace that she felt right now. It wasn’t as intense as it had been, but she could still feel that irrational unease crawling over her skin.
Sev was close to dozing but the change in her breathing brought him back from the edge of sleep’s embrace. “Good morning,” he murmured, his voice raspier than usual.
Even groggy from the sedative she’d taken, she could tell that he was exhausted and that broke her heart, making her feel guilty. From the grey sky that she could see beyond the skylight and the fact that the blood red numbers on the bedside clock read 3:14, she could tell it was afternoon rather than morning. For a moment, LJ watched the rain sliding down the angled glass, finding a strange sort of comfort in that perfectly normal thing. “You didn’t get any sleep at all, did you?” She wasn’t admonishing. It was merely a baseline question, one to test reality after spending the last twelve hours or so drifting from one nightmare to the next.
“It is fine,” he replied, as calm as he’d always been. “There is still time before the weekend. Do not worry.”
“I don’t want to jeopardise–”
He cut her off with a rude noise. The tournament for that vacant championship, the thing that had seemed so damned important a week before had lost all lustre. With the tenacity and enthusiasm that he’d initially thrown his name in for it, that was rather disappointing. Thinking about it now, compared to his family, that scrap of leather and hammered metal was nothing more than a glorified Cracker Jack prize.
When he broke the silence again, it was to change the subject completely, even though he knew that was what his wife had been trying to do as well.
“It is gone. Like you asked.”
She was quiet for so long that he thought she’d drifted back to sleep, would have left it alone if he hadn’t heard that sniffle and lifted his head from the pillow to see the tear leaking from the corner of her eye. “It really happened, then. The box showing up and…”
“Yes.” He shifted position, propping his head up with his elbow. His own eyes were watering, feeling raw and full of sand but he made sure he was uncomfortable enough to stay awake for the moment. “Tell me. I wish to understand why–”
“More of Archer’s games.” LJ’s voice came out small, full of shame and defeat and he felt that familiar surge of righteous, protective anger. Her father was a sociopath, a narcissist who would clearly stop at nothing to reclaim his daughter, as if she was some misplaced possession rather than a rational human being who wanted nothing more to do with the toxic family that had raised her. “He probably wanted me to… God, I don’t even know what his motivations were.”
“Gotcha.” He filled in the blank, smoothing her hair back from her face. “To let you know he still believes he is in control – we both know better. We will fight this. Fire with fire. When I get back from Manchester, we will go to the police. Give them the evidence. Show them what he has–”
“No!” LJ’s eyes were wide, terrified as she turned her head to look at him. “We can’t.”
He’d already surmised as much, given what he’d seen and from what he’d overheard when she’d left a voicemail message for her uncle. Something had been buried. A secret. Perhaps even that candlestick itself.
“It was the summer of 2017. August, I think. It was hot, really humid. I remember that.” The words came out haltingly, as if she was having trouble pushing them past her lips. Her insides were finally feeling warm again, but the words were still frozen. “There was this old man – a senator, I think. I woke up in his bed, confused… missing some of my clothes. He… he tried to assault me. Again. And I…” she closed her eyes, the words drying up. She couldn’t bring herself to say the last part aloud. To tell him about all the blood and the horrible, EVIL thing that she’d done that she had spent the night reliving over and over in her nightmares, each one growing more and more twisted until she was sure that she was the true monster in this relationship.
“I cannot imagine how terrified you must have been. To wake up in a strange place, disorientated and alone.” Sev’s voice cracked, a little bit of the emotion he was trying to hide from her bleeding through. He cleared his throat, reaching out to gently touch her face. “Solnyshka, look at me. Please?”
Her eyes opened, tears in her lashes shining silver like the raindrops streaking down the glass above their heads. Her chin quivered, teeth digging into her bottom lip as she tried not to break down again.
“These things, they are in the past. Ghosts. Immaterial. They cannot harm us. I promise you this. As long as I am drawing breath, as long as I am on this Earth, you will be safe. Our daughter will be safe. You will be cherished. Protected. Provided for. There will be no reason to ever question the depths of my devotion. The things I love, I will fight for them until my dying day.”
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Tokyo, Japan ||| April 8, 2023
(off camera)
The blood-thirsty UPRISING fans had dispersed nearly an hour ago, the locker room at Korakuen Hall deserted. Sev Yurievich knotted the towel around his waist, walking across the empty space. His ears were ringing, the phantom echoes of the fans springing to mind even though he knew it was just the afterburn of adrenaline and a touch of tinnitus. Tonight had been another mistake in what was starting to feel a bit like a streak. Another misstep – the last trip to Japan, to this very venue, was still fresh in his mind. The original card, the original draw had been an invitation made by the man himself: an opportunity to face Matthew Knox. In Japan. Here, at one of the most famous places in the business. Of course, he had jumped at the chance.
Of course, the universe had seen fit to snatch it from his grasp. Knox dropped off the face of the earth, but because he had integrity, he’d seen it through. Because he’d already agreed to work their second show as well, he’d made good on that promise. He hadn’t asked for a championship opportunity.
Two wins. Big ones, over veterans Serena Riot and then Shane Donovan.
Wiping steam from the mirror with the back of his hand, he sighed, staring at his distorted reflection. Everything ached. Tonight had been a mistake, to step in to protect Summer as her third in a match for a company that had cared so little about him as a competitor that when he chose to go solo, they let him walk away rather than match the offer he’d received. Now, he would be heading to Manchester at far less than one hundred percent.
Why don’t you just hand the bastard a win on a silver platter? Stupid.
His hands were shaking when he gripped the basin, lowering his head.
“Do you always linger in famous places in the wrestling industry in just a towel or is this show just for me?” The question lingered in the air but only caused him to cut his eyes in the direction of the source.
The person in question happened to be another man that wrestled earlier tonight. A man that was out there in his corner in front of the raucous crowd. Jace Parker Davidson stood in the doorframe trying to look cool but was obviously using it to keep himself upright.
A rough chuckle passed Sev’s lips and he reached to turn on the faucet, splashing some of the cold water on his overheated face, rubbing his eyes to wash away the last of the black greasepaint that hadn’t come off in the shower. “Thought if I stayed longer, I might absorb some of the greatness here. So far, it is not working.”
Jace chewed on that comment in his head for a moment before pushing himself with a slight groan off of the doorframe. He hobbled himself over toward the mirror in front of the towering giant and peered into it beside him.
“Listen…” Jace began after making sure they were alone. “I just want to apologise for everything earlier, you know? I should have completely asked first before getting involved with you and--” He paused and rethought his words. “I mean, I’m just not sure of the kind of relationship you and her have. Or even if it’s a relationsh--”
He bit down on his bottom lip and shook his head in frustration.
“What I mean is that, you did good out there tonight. You didn’t get your hand raised in victory but you didn’t suffer defeat either. That’s a win in my book. It was a pleasure being in your corner tonight with… yeah, you know.”
Enigma stared at him for a few minutes, blinking as water dripped from his nose and chin. “She pays me… for my services. I do not,” he shook his head, as if stumbling over finding the right way to be politically correct on the part of Davidson had pushed a button that had unlocked his mind from the neutral gear it had been in all night. “I have never had a relationship with her, outside of a professional one. She trusts me. I value loyalty above all else. That is why I come to these things, why I had her back tonight, despite how disposable I am in the eyes of this company and its CEO.”
Jace winced a bit at the assessment but couldn’t argue when it came to the man that was CEO at the moment.
“Well, that’s good to know. Last thing I wanted to ever do was step on your toes in that aspect.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “As far as the man we both call boss? He wouldn’t know actual talent if it bit him on the ass. He’s got people like Marisol Vilaro and Ace Sky signed to the roster.”
Jace’s eyes mindlessly wandered to the mirror as he stared at the battle wounds on his own body from the Japanese Deathmatch that he competed in.
“Your worth isn’t defined by a man with obvious bias. Besides, if you were worthless, would I have signed you to my roller derby team?” It was a rhetorical question. “Anyway, I hear you got some big things coming up for yourself.” He broached the subject without trying to pry too much.
The big man nodded, turning away from the mirror and sinks and heading over towards the lockers on the opposite wall. “Manchester on Monday. First round in a tournament for a title that was recently vacated by my new friend Joe Montuori.” Even as he mentioned it, his voice came out hollow, almost disappointed. “All the eggs in one basket. Excellence is on a break now – I could not stomach the thought of being idle for months on end.”
Jace cocked an eyebrow and stared at the man with his one good eye. A whisper of amusement played over his features as he made his way over toward the lockers.
“Idle hands do the Devil’s work, or something like that.” Davidson mused. “I can understand wanting to keep busy but everyone knows you by now.” Jace emphasised the comment by patting him on the back. “You just hop from company to company, never really making a mark. Never really doing anything of significance. You’re a journeyman in this business of ours but that’s just a fancy way of saying you’re a cheap slut for golden opportunities. Better learn quickly not to fumble them, butterfingers.”
He didn’t think, didn’t even blink before grabbing Davidson by the shoulders and slamming him against the lockers. One meaty forearm pressed against his throat, those tattooed veins bulging as the tension increased. Sev leaned in close, his voice low and dangerous. “You know nothing – more than two seasons I was in New York and for what? To be belittled, called too ‘ugly’ to be a credible champion? Иди на хуй.” He didn’t bother to mention that he worked for PWE for the entirety of its second season, despite losing numerous times. All this time, he had believed that the numbers would speak for themselves. “Your mouth, it does not know when to quit, does it?”
Davidson’s one eye widened, his breathing laboured at best. However, through it all, the shit-eating grin on his face never faded, even for a moment.
“I’m not the bad guy here.” He choked out through coughs and gasps for precious oxygen. “I'm just telling it like it is. You’re back here looking like a sad sack because Excellence shut its doors. Buddy, Excellence shut its doors on you long before that company ever existed.”
He wanted to deny that, but the writing was on the proverbial wall. He had beaten former champions over and over. He had humiliated Chelsea Skye, defeated JMont in two of three falls. None of it had mattered to anyone. Davidson’s face was mottled, going from red to purple and a part of him wanted to keep that pressure on, to watch the light fade in his eyes as if that would delete those poisonous thoughts that he’d only been repeating. Instead, Sev stepped back quickly, shaking his head.
“Fuck!” Davidson choked.
With the grip on his neck released, he doubled over and sucked in air into his needy lungs. Once the coughing fit subsided and his vision cleared. He leaned back up. He reached up and placed a hand on Sev’s shoulder. The man turned, ready for a fight but Davidson came in peace, this time.
“You’re a sensitive son of a bitch.” Davidson spouted, tempting fate. “Got to have tougher skin than that if you’re ever going to survive out here. People have been dogging me left and right my entire career. Every single day, I wake up to a chorus of people dragging my name through the mud but I don’t let that shit bother me.” He paused again, still not quite yet breathing properly. “If you got a problem with something I said, if you got a problem with something anyone ever says to you? Then go out there and do one of two things. Either punch them in the fucking throat or step into the ring and prove them wrong.”
Sev wondered if Davidson was sincere in his suggestion. He wasn’t sure if Davidson had tried to light a fire under the sleeping monster or if he was a giant asshole.
“Of course,” Davidson began again. “Knowing me, I’d do both of them.”
That tracks, Sev thought. Slowly, he unclenched his fists, flexing the stiffness from his fingers. The desire to bury both of them in this mouthy little prick’s face was tempting but he managed to quash the urge.
“That rage you were just feeling? Channel it and use it to your advantage. Going to need to see less Teddy Bear out of you and more Cocaine Bear.” He slapped Sev on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “Now get on out of here, it’s not going to be pretty in here in a few seconds.” Davidson warned as he waddled his way over toward the stalls.
“I think he made me shit myself, that big ass bitch!” Davidson grumbled loudly to himself before slamming one of the stall doors shut.
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[•REC]
E̷N̷I̷G̷M̷A̷: You and I, Slater, we need to have a little chat. Candidly. And I do not mean shrieking monkeys hurling obscenities into the void, tossing feces at the wall to see what sticks. I mean an honest and civil discourse. Are you even capable of that? I suppose this is a rhetorical question, as we are in the zero hours and there is far too little time for you to wrack that hive mind of yours to find some clever little nugget to repurpose and regurgitate. I think rather than burden you with the expectation of a reply, I will get some things off my mind. A little confessional, if you will. This is, after all, the right season for redemption and reinvention. Spring. Easter. The vernal equinox: a pagan celebration of the cycle of life begun anew.
We’re back in another small room, more close quarters pressing in. The MONSTER MACHINE sits on another folding metal chair, turned around so that his broad and tattooed forearms are resting across the back.
E̷N̷I̷G̷M̷A̷: You act as though you know me and then the first thing you do is question my dedication to this business? Rookie mistake for someone who should be able to simply look at my age, look at my pedigree and realise there is not a speck of green anywhere on me. This is the reason I feel compelled to unburden myself. This is a time of renewal, after all. A time for the earth to cast off the coldness of winter and begin to stretch towards the sun, to grow. I feel this deep in my bones, this desire to be something better. I am sure your tainted view of my career, this 30-second TikTok snippet condensed for a small screen – and even smaller mind – version of events would have me running out, popping up here, there and everywhere in some desperate grasp at fame. Yet you are the one who is competing in two tournaments at once. You are the one who failed to capture the vacant WGWF championship when the company resurrected itself from the ashes, simply so that Chris Page had a place to cater to his own enormous ego without being checked. Small fish, gulping for air in his stagnant little pond, wondering why the glory doesn’t fall into your hands as easily as it did six years ago. With Excellence on break, these are my only scheduled appearances for the foreseeable future.
Ah, but let us not let the facts ruin a good fiction. All you had to do was open your mouth, paint me as the wicker man in your quest to collide with Mac Bane, Goth, Thaddeus Duke – all the best out of Sin City. You would put your body, your precious career on the line against someone you know wishes you harm for a trinket that you yourself have said you have no interest in? Slater, you speak from both sides of your mouth – full of contradictions. Anyway, the wind blows. You are here because someone else suggested it. You are here because you want to play a little circle jerk game of grab-ass with your friends. You proclaim that outsiders are better than the local wildlife, yet you have no desire to reap the spoils of this tournament? I suppose there is some hypocrisy in picking at you for this. The idea to come here was planted in my mind by the former champion, after all.
To hell with your desire for an SCW-and-friends hostile takeover. I would add fresh blood to the mix. I see potential in the other side of the bracket, challenges. I do not see crosshairs and victims. What about your friends? Do you speak for the rest of them as well? If so, this is going to be a very boring few weeks, smashing my way to the top of the heap.
He shakes his head slowly, looking disappointed. Leaning forward, he fixes those dead eyes on the camera.
E̷N̷I̷G̷M̷A̷: We are creatures of habit, no? We get stuck in ruts, repeating the same motions over and over. We cling to the things we believe define us. This is human nature. We want to leave footprints on the moon, plant flags on mountaintops. We reach for the stars, we grab at glory because it is something everlasting. Our lives are so fragile, these miniscule moments so finite they barely fill a teacup, let alone the gaping chasm of your enormous ego. In this business, we need to stand out. A prospective champion should command attention, should be more than a cheap little “gotcha” moment. You believe in this power, but should do a little research and find out how laughably pathetic you truly are. We both know you are not clever. You have proven this.
You huff and puff and crow about your superiority from the rooftops. The louder, the better – let everyone in earshot know the Big Bad Wolf is coming. Poor little piggies. Shout. Wave your hands. Parade a thousand friends out to sing your praises. Anything to drown out the sounds of your own inadequacies. I know they are whispering in your ears, though.
You are not GLORIOUS. You are reckless. FOOLHARDY. You believe this is your moment, written in the stars. Too bad by the time we see them, they are already extinguished. It takes five years – did you know this? That message you are banking on, it is old. Meant for the past version of you, Slater. We are on a different page now, the story of wolves and pigs left behind in the nursery. We are playing for keeps, now. For something of value. You will bleed. You will break. You will choke on your cheap little words.
I do not fear mice who pretend to be men. I crush them.
A menacing chuckle follows before it’s cut off by a hiss of static. The video fades away to darkness.
