QUESTIONS & ANSWERS (Chapter 16: F is for Family) [iiw]
May 3, 2023 9:21:02 GMT -5
Post by Admin on May 3, 2023 9:21:02 GMT -5
Hello, Mac. This is a long flight and my mind is restless; I hope you will forgive me if I ramble on. We are only a few hours removed from Mayhem and I have yet to process all the things that happened after my match. A part of me is disappointed, although not surprised. I have known Joe for a while, after all. I have seen the schemes, the manipulations firsthand. I know that glory, that spotlights are what he covets most. What disappoints me is the sinking feeling I was terribly wrong about you. Please, allow me a moment to explain. Going into this match against Thad, I found myself doing a disservice. I was overlooking, obsessed with the prospect of moving on like a foregone conclusion. This semi-final match is the benchmark. The pinnacle of my career. The peanut gallery made picks the moment the brackets were announced, called you the next champion – not to take anything away from Kim Pain or homegrown talent Deandre Williams. They were all touting YOU as the strongest OUTSIDE challenger. Not Thad Duke. Not Dane Preston. Certainly not ME. Look how the tables have turned. No longer tourists, are we?
I signed on the dotted line before ever hitting the ring against Slater, without fanfare. No easing in, testing waters. You made your official arrival to the roster a spectacle at the end of the match with Miss Pain. I am reminded of that old adage “anything you can do, I can do better,” as childish as that can be. I cannot help but see the parallel.
Everything in my life has become a bit of déjà vu lately – patterns repeating, easily recognized. And I feel strangely unsettled, as if a part of me already knows how this is going to play out. Common sense tells me that you will not be humble about your win. A simple glance over your pedigree could tell me that, without going back to review anything you have said thus far in the tournament. A world champion dozens of times over, so many lengthy reigns that it paints quite the lovely picture. On paper, that is.
I could delve further. We are nearly the same age. Nearly the same stature. You are the Bane. I am the MONSTER MACHINE. Both anathemas, destined to be misunderstood and ultimately hated. So much alike, yet so very different.
Your level of success has eluded me.
I hoped that in making it this far, in getting to stand across the ring from you, I could finally solve the riddle. Do you understand my motivation? I feel like you won’t and that this will simply fall by the wayside, crushed under your trampling feet as you make yet another grab at glory like the greedy little shit you truly are. I see you, Mac. That little stunt with JMont might have the others spinning like tops, scrambling to correct course but for me, it was another layer peeled back, another piece clicking into place. I came here because he planted that idea. You came here because it was easy. Because there was a void left and you assumed there was no one better than you to fill it. Seventeen world championships, makes me wonder why you would want this one when it is so clearly beneath you, even by your own admission.
Why indeed.
You and Kim and JMont. Three perfect peas in a pod, ready to unleash chaos. Three perfect, shining beacons of greatness in a sea of mediocrity. Our saviours? The demise of a company that was doing just fine before you dragged yourself in from the stagnant waters of Sin City? Shall I fall on my knees now and beg mercy? Is this championship even worth fighting for when you’re planning to tear this company apart at its seams?
Who are you really, Mac?
What is the great master plan?
Can you tell me without talking out of both sides of your mouth? Can you tell me without belittling every success I have had over the last year just to make your own accomplishments seem better? Or maybe you don't even know who you are anymore. It happens when you reinvent yourself every few months just to stay fresh.
Oh, I know. This is old hat for you. Another cakewalk in a long and storied career full of them – branded an underdog in his mind only, the venerable Mac Bane will waltz his way to victory yet again. So it was already written, foretold as though was written in the stars. I know the truth, though. I see through the smoke and mirrors. You have aligned yourself with JMont because you know there is no chance you can take that World Championship from him.
This was meant to be the easy way, the road less travelled. You did not expect to encounter resistance. You did not count on ME.
That will be your biggest regret, whether you understand it or not. I will wear you down. I will break you. My hand will be raised in victory and I will do it on my own. No friends. No family.
Then, and only then, you will understand what true LOSS feels like.
━E
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Queens, NY ||| April 25, 2023
(off camera)
(off camera)
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned on the faucet. Of all the places to run into someone he knew, the men’s room near gate C31 at LaGuardia was the last one he’d have expected to find Larry Gowan in. The guy was the former GM of UPRISING and a man he’d come up in the business with since the mid-90’s. The pink Juicy Couture rolling suitcase that had become a running joke in every locker room for the last year was parked between Sev's feet, water dripping between his fingers as he stared at Gowan in the reflection. The former wrestler was nearly a foot shorter than the barrel-chested ENIGMA, his denim-blue eyes solemn behind the glasses he wore that were nearly the same shade.
“I must have heard you wrong.” Sev finally broke the silence even though it was well-past awkward. People were coming and going all around them; he seemed oblivious. “Just returned from Manchester – I am a little lagged.”
He’d heard Larry perfectly fine. Even exhausted, even with the disorientation that came with the adrenaline and excitement falling flat in the face of that bombshell that had just been dropped at his feet, his ears were working just fine. Shaking hands reached out to turn off the taps, even though his mind was suddenly so full of a rush of unwanted memories that he couldn’t even remember if he’d used soap.
Slowly, the mountain of a man turned, his eyes narrowed as something dark and sinister slithered through his gaze, there and gone in an instant before a warm and welcoming smile was on his lips.
“I’m sorry,” Larry said, so stereotypically Canadian in that instant it was almost laughable. “I think I have your old cell number – the calls weren’t going through. I stopped by your old apartment, which turned into a whole thing. I think I have to go on a date with your old neighbour’s son. Anyhow, eventually I got a hold of LJ, who told me where you were and when you were expected to return.” The words all came out in a mad rush and at the end of the abbreviated tale, Gowan looked pretty pleased with his detective work.
Sev could feel that anger writhing and thrashing around in its prison deep in his guts, trying to break free – he pictured his hands around Larry’s throat, flinging him like a ragdoll around the room. Clearly his efforts to break all the old ties and create a new life for himself had failed in the worst way. He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes to the smallest slits, picturing the square as he did the breathing exercise he had learned in therapy.
“Well, you have found me.”
The silence, when broken, didn’t get any warmer. Larry shifted his weight from one foot to the other, reaching up to rub the back of his neck nervously. “Listen, I don’t want to be the messenger any more than you want the message… but Pete’s asking for you. I promised him I’d try.”
He had to be talking about Pyotr Vladimirovich: the masked wrestler known as PYRO, his former tag team partner for the better part of two decades. He hadn’t spoken to him in over two years, since UPRISING’s INFERNO. April 3, 2021.
Sev sighed, shaking his head. “Then you tell him that. I am sure your efforts will be suitably rewarded—”
“He’s in the hospital.” When the big man said nothing, Larry pressed on, his voice almost breaking. “You’d hardly recognize him. Please, Sev… just go see him.” Heart on his sleeve like always, Larry’s eyes behind those slightly tinted lenses were bright and shiny with unshed emotion.
Bleeding heart has fallen into the trap, hook, line and sinker. The poor fool.
Sev’s voice was sharp as a whip crack. “You delivered the message, Lawrence. I have heard enough.” His hand lifted to his face, pressing the swollen and bruised fingers against his lips as though he wanted to pull back that verbal tell.
Larry saw the scrapes on those knuckles, saying nothing. They both knew how hard he fought for every match, no matter its significance. A win over Thad Duke was nothing to scoff at. Neither was advancing into the semi-final round of the International Title tournament. He wanted to change the subject, to offer congratulations on a job well done but it didn’t feel appropriate.
As much as he wanted to hold them back, those poisonous words needed to be spilled or they would surely choke him. He let his hand fall. “What gives you the right to run all over town, trying to track me down so you can casually toss this guilt trip ticket at my feet? He has tried this trick before. He is like a snake, waits until your guard is down—”
“He’s in palliative care,” Gowan interjected quietly, clarifying when Sev said nothing, “that means he’s dying. I know the two of you had a falling out, had your differences over the years, but at the end of the day, he’s family.”
Fuck.
His fingers closed tightly around the handle of his suitcase and if it hadn’t been solid metal, it may have shattered under the force of his grip. He turned and started walking, leaving Gowan no choice but to trail along behind. His features had arranged themselves into that impenetrable mask he wore so often between the ropes, emotions safely in check. “He is nothing to me.” The words came out cold, harsh as they fell between the two men – they had once been thick as thieves, all three of them. Former colleagues. Former friends. Former enhancement talent down in Texas. Sev stopped so suddenly that Larry almost ran into him. He turned quickly, fixing the smaller man with a measuring look. “He hated you; always, you knew this, no? How much he envied you, the locker room leader. The man with so much charisma that they threw the world at your feet, there for the taking. When Nathanial Duke took you under his wing…” he made a rude noise, shaking his head.
“There are few true friends in this business,” Gowan murmured, eyes downcast, “and pitting us against each other does us no favours. Brings out the best in some, the worst in others. But that doesn’t mean I would ever wish this on anyone, even him.” There was more to it, the death knell etched clearly in the pallor of his features.
Sev dragged his bottom lip between his teeth, chewing on the swollen, chapped flesh. He could taste blood as he mulled over the information he’d been given. “Wish what? For a bitter piece of shit to reap what he has sown?”
“Listen–” Larry faltered and Sev cut him off, stepping into his personal space.
“Save it. I do not wish to hear more of your locker room lectures. WCWF was a very long time ago and I have washed my hands of anything to do with him. I am happy now. At peace. My life has meaning. My career is flourishing. For this, I owe him nothing. So, you go back to wherever it is you came from, and you tell him that. You tell him that he has already been dead to me for years; I will not mourn his passing.”
He turned away and Larry said nothing. Sev kept his eyes straight ahead as he gripped the handle on his case, dragging it along behind him. He didn’t look back, didn’t want to see the look on Gowan’s face. The truth tasted like ashes on his tongue, cloying and making him long for a drink of that astringent vodka he kept hidden in the freezer. He kept going, putting one foot in front of the other until he was pushing outside into the cool afternoon air. He had no memory of walking to his car in the long term lot, had no recollection of how much time had passed but his breathing was laboured, his heart pounding so that he nearly fell into the front seat, hunching over the steering wheel as he fumbled his phone out of his pocket.
Checked the last messages. She hadn’t responded yet, apparently hadn’t even seen it – she’s probably gone for a nap, he told himself, trying to keep from letting another worry creep in. Without that lifeline, he could feel himself slipping. He closed his eyes, pressing a hand over them. They felt hot, burning in their sockets but there were no tears. He kept breathing. Tried to quiet his mind, thankful to be alive and well. In that moment, it was all he could do.
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Rock Hill, NY ||| April 26, 2023
(off camera)
(off camera)
Body clock completely out of whack, the sun was sinking over the horizon when Sev finally rolled over in bed, opening his eyes. He had no idea it was Wednesday, that he’d lost an entire day; he reached for his phone on the bedside table only to find the screen dark and unresponsive.
“I couldn’t find your charger,” the voice came softly from the doorway to the ensuite and he looked up to find his wife silhouetted there, wrapped in the oversized silk kimono he’d brought home from Japan. She was due in a few weeks’ time, her pregnant belly visible in profile before she turned and disappeared back inside. He heard the water start running, realised she was filling the tub and he immediately sat up. Over the last month, he’d grown paranoid, worried about all sorts of things that could happen to that delicate life growing inside her. She’d been cautioned not to fly but had otherwise been given nothing but assurances that “everything was on track, just fine” from the doctor. Still, Sev worried.
He got up, stretching and feeling his back and shoulders pop in protest. He felt stiff, the beginnings of a headache making the light sting his eyes as he shuffled through the doorway and across the old Navajo rug to stop in front of the sink. He cranked on the cold faucet, cupping his hands under the spray before splashing his face, clearing the crusts of sleep from his eyes. He stood there for a moment, eyes closed, taking a deep breath. The room smelled wonderful, the cedar planks on the walls still fragrant, damp with the steam from the drawn bath and mixing with the fresh scent of the lavender bath oil his wife had added to the water.
The smell alone centred him, the last vestiges of sleep fading away as the reality that gave him so much joy asserted itself. He turned in time to see his wife stepping into the copper clawfoot tub, easing herself gently down into the warm, fragrant and cloudy water. She caught his gaze, smiling warmly.
“Good morning, Rip Van Winkle,” she laughed softly, noting his confusion at the name, “it’s Wednesday. You slept for seventeen hours. You obviously needed it.”
His brow furrowed but he didn’t argue. She was right. He hadn’t slept at all on the flight home, had been up for almost thirty-six hours by the time he’d run into Larry Gowan. He’d been coasting on adrenaline fumes and the whole meeting was foggy. He thought he might have been rude, more abrupt than he’d meant to be and made a mental note to text Larry later, to make sure he apologized.
“...talk to me. I missed you so much.”
Her voice pulled him back from that reverie and he saw her pointing to the old chair next to the tub, the one she’d added despite it being wildly out of place because she loved sitting there, feet propped up on the edge of the tub while she watched the sun go down. Tonight was no disappointment, the sky on fire with oranges and deep reds – he had no interest, angling the chair towards her instead. The groan slipped out when he sank into it, feeling a twinge in his back – her look of concern warmed his heart.
“I am fine,” he was quick to assure her. “Just stiff. I will go to the gym tomorrow and it will be better. You’ll see.”
“I know Larry tracked you down. You told me that. Did you find out what he needed that was so urgent that it couldn’t be a phone call or a text?”
His laughter was bitter, “wish it were an email. Could have ignored it easier, then.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
He pulled in a slow breath through his nose, exhaling with a sigh. “He tells me Pyotr is in hospital. Knocking on death’s door. Asking for me.” Each sentence was a fragment, chopped abruptly – she knew him well enough to read that tell. He was furious, biting back anger.
Scooting forward, she leaned over the edge of the tub, reaching out to take his hands where they dangled between his knees. She smoothed her thumbs over the scrapes on his knuckles, gently squeezing. “I’m so sorry,” her voice was soft, so gentle. She knew there was a lot of bad blood, especially since he hadn’t uttered the man’s real name in more than two years. “No wonder you crashed so hard.”
“I do not…” he swallowed hard, gaze breaking from hers to look out the window instead. The sky was darkening, twilight hues taking over the oranges as the crimson sank towards the horizon.
“Nobody says you have to go see him.” The water sloshed as she pulled her hands back, turning slightly so that she was more comfortable. “I completely understand if you don’t want to.”
He continued as though she hadn’t interrupted, “I do not know how to feel about it. If it was not for him, I would not be here. In America. In this business. Even in this house. With you. He plucked me from that circus. Not metaphorically. It was. Literally… a travelling carnival with a full show. The tent. Animals and clowns and acrobats. At seventeen, I was over six feet… good muscle tone. Athletic. I had been working there since the previous summer, doing what I could for money after leaving the orphanage. Sweeping after the animals. Cleaning the vomit from the big wheel, the trash from the stands. I did not tell you this… the origins, they are embarrassing.”
Everyone has a story. Yours is just the most clichéd, dummy. Keep it to yourself. The moment it gets out, you’ll be a laughingstock. A bigger joke than you already are.
PYRO’s words echoed in his head, making it ache a little bit more.
He closed his eyes, the memory bringing back the smell of sawdust and vomit overlaid with the sickening sweet of the candy floss they sold in the big plastic bags. A shudder crawled down his spine and he pulled in another deep breath, replacing that nauseating memory with lavender and cedar instead.
“I was first taught to wrestle by the animal trainer.” He let that hang for a moment, clearing his throat. “Just basic holds. And the choke throw. The one I still use. He saw me one night. Approached me after with an offer.” He didn’t elaborate more than that. The last thing he wanted to tell her was that the year she was getting skinned knees learning to ride a bicycle, he was making $20 a week, wrestling a bear that used to do a juggling act. “I could not refuse. It was more money. More than I would make in a month to simply be a willing participant. A warm body for students at a St. Petersburg wrestling school to stretch, to practise their holds on. A year later, he was invited to America, to work for a company in Texas – he insisted that I come along. This was what he told me then. A package deal, one that he had negotiated just for me. I felt so special, like I finally had the family I had always wanted. I believed he cared, wanted the best for me, helped mould me into a MONSTER who could be feared. I loved him for that, my saviour. Unconditionally. I forgave him, over and over, for every transgression because I would think about the smell of shit and vomit, think about the way he had reached in and plucked me from that sewer. How could I ever…” he shook his head, falling silent against the lump in his throat.
“You repaid that debt,” LJ whispered fervently, her eyes burning fever-bright with rage. “A thousand times over. With every match you lost, with all those times your talents were wasted in those companies who were too stupid to see the talent in front of them. To hell with Mac Bane and Tristan-fucking-Slater and that stupid piece of shit who made you question your self-worth from the moment you set foot in a ring. They can burn in hell for all I care. They were wrong. You were so envious of Thaddeus Duke, spoke so highly of him and his accomplishments. Sev, that could’ve been you. You were good enough – I know you were.”
So many voices contradicting that statement roared through his mind and the fact that he’d been so willing to swallow the bitter pill for so many years banked the embers of anger in his guts to a raging inferno in an instant. The desire to smash, to raze and rage rose up, curling his stiff fingers into fists.
He was quiet for so long that she wanted to smack him, to rise up out of that water and wrap herself around him like a kraken, shake him until he came to his senses. Just when she started to move, he lifted his head. His eyes locked on hers, and he said two words with such grim certainty that it made her eyes go wide and her blood run cold.
“He lied.”
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[•REC]
E̷N̷I̷G̷M̷A̷: You were aware of me before this tournament? I should hope so. It has only been two short years since we last bumped shoulders in a locker room. Not that I expect you to remember, not when you were doing double duty as the BIG BAD WOLF of Sin City. We could chat about my previous places of employment versus yours – the alphabet soup of our varied histories that will surely put everyone to sleep. You have accused me of eloquence, accused me of being at peace with being overlooked? Just more of your back-handed compliments, maintaining the illusion of cleverness. After more than twenty years in this business, I stand before you, proud of how far I have come. I may not have held a world championship, let alone seventeen of them, but I have fought with all my heart and soul every time I step into that ring. I appreciate the embellishment but I don’t need to pad my resume with fictions.
Static crackles in the silence. The screen remains dark – audio only, it seems.
E̷N̷I̷G̷M̷A̷: But perhaps you are not in a mood for soup tonight. Surely your appetite, like mine, is much larger. Do we delve into the meat and potatoes, instead? You know by now that I am not the type to roll over, to play dead. After decades of silence, I find these little missives to be almost...cathartic? I think that is the right word. I’m sure you understand the necessity. When someone I used to respect, when someone I thought was a pillar of the industry has the audacity to make up lies, we have a problem that all the talking in the world will not fix. No, I am not angry. Not at all. I am disappointed. Disgusted, even.
Their words are inside your head. Your allies. Family. All those souls who lapped up every syllable from your lips and parroted them back like gospel. It feels so good, though, doesn’t it? I understand completely. I know the call intimately. I was also plucked from a gutter, chosen. Given purpose: a weapon, a BROTHER. Polished, primed, ready to strike for a cause. You question, belittle this truth, but you cannot see the similarities right before your very eyes? How pathetic. Should we talk about what I see? Should we talk about how small you truly are? About how you wave those championships, those accolades around like a red flag? You are no more bullfighter than I am bull.
After you are eliminated, I urge you to be honest. With them. With yourself. Drop the pretences, the insults veiled as compliments. Talk straight for once in your life. "I mean what I say." Do you, Mac? Do you really? I know what a lie sounds like, even when it spills from the lips of a so-called honest man. To Hell with your seventeen championship runs. Spit on your TRIPLE crowns and this poorly-timed Hostile Takeover. I will take that lesson over any other, any day of the week.
The scorn isn't concealed in the least.
E̷N̷I̷G̷M̷A̷: Your fear is evident, blood in the water. Predatory senses are tingling, awakened. I am flattered, though, that you were so eager to tear into me. Does this mean I have finally made it? Am I part of the brotherhood now, too? No half-assing. Mac Bane always has the endgame planned out, right down to the LAST breath before the three. I know that you cannot pass through a glass ceiling any more than you can walk through walls, no matter who you think you are. I know that when the way is blocked, you have a choice. You can change direction, plot a new course. Let a contract expire. Walk away.
A veteran would never smash himself to smithereens trying to regain something that has lost all meaning. Glass breaks, certainly. Never cleanly. Never without damage done.
Strange how many parallels we have, for being so different.
After twenty-five years in the shadows, watching both WOLVES and SHEEP consumed indiscriminately, I know about survival, understand longevity. And now, here we are, at the semi-finals, the crossroads where aspirations bleed out, gutted by failure. How will you cope? With more lies? Another trip down memory lane?
Seventeen-time. Justice. Control. Damnation. Killer instinct. Yes, yes. We know. Here’s your paper crown, King Nothing.
Talk is cheap; thoughts worth mere pennies.
Still, I cannot wait to hear what you say when they ask where you got all the bruises. Will you tell them you were trying to walk through a WALL?
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