QUESTIONS & ANSWERS (Chapter 21: FUNERAL ARRANGEMENTS) [iiw]

The red-eye flight from Hiroshima had landed a few hours ago. He was still in the airport, holed up in the Admiral’s Club lounge at a table-for-two tucked back furthest from the entrance. His back was against the wall, his left shoulder resting against the glass partition. Below, travellers were going about their day, hustling to make their boarding calls. Another message from some random number had come in before he had left the arena following the bloody and brutal match at IIW’s Mayhem and he had skipped doing much more than a whore’s bath in the sink at the airport to freshen up before boarding the plane home. He’d been waiting for this meeting. He’d had a thousand variations of the exchange playing out in his thoughts and nightmares since he’d returned from the previous Mayhem to find out that his wife had been snatched by her psycho father while getting a spa treatment. And now here he sat, almost 24 hours removed from his first championship defence with his wrists still taped up, tacky with the dried blood of poor Kenny Pryce. It would be a wonder if that kid wrestled again any time soon.

The fact that he had won the match had barely registered beyond that gloating post with the video that had been taken and sent to him by one of the fans. He’d done that on autopilot, regurgitating the same rhetoric he’d been spouting for weeks and right now he felt no real pride over the fact that his words both before AND after Worlds Collide had been prophetic. Right now, he was consumed with exhaustion and a sick dread that had made the bottle of vodka that currently sat half-empty on the table seem even more palatable. The tape crackled as he reached for the glass, ice cubes rattling as he lifted it to his lips and swallowed another mouthful of crisp, cold liquor. He wanted to hit something again because the anger kept bubbling up, the hatred kept choking him with that bitter taste in the back of his throat that the astringent vodka did nothing to dispel.

Closing his eyes now, he felt that phantom tide of exhaustion and depression tugging at him. It helped to replay those snippets of the match he’d enjoyed most: The sound of the crowd was still in his ears, some sort of mental vertigo even though Japan was several thousand miles and almost twenty-four hours removed. On some level he could remember how good it felt when that worthless kid's nose had crushed on impact; his mouth had been smeared in red like a naughty child caught gobbling strawberries from a neighbour’s garden. That automatic part of his brain, the lizard-reptilian part that felt a sick sort of karmic glee over the damage done. That was the part that could do this no matter how far off the scope of normal human interaction he dropped – oh, he could always fight – it seemed that now he had also found the secret formula for winning, too.

He'd probably never hold any top gold in any company before his time in the business ran out; that fact was staring him in the face. His hand closed around the bottle, feeling the cut glass ridges. It sloshed when he shook it without turning his head, clinking against the rim of the glass as he topped it up again. The headache was back, the pain jumping around his head randomly. The lights blurred as he squinted before closing his eyes for a few seconds as he lifted the glass to his lips, taking another slow pull of the liquor. The ambient noise seemed to mute, as if some veil had been thrown over it and he knew without opening his eyes that the devil incarnate had arrived. He knew exactly what he looked like, the picture he presented with the blood spatter on his boots and that crusty tape around his aching wrists – at least his clothes were clean.

He opened his eyes and stared at the bottle on the table rather than the tall and broad-shouldered man sliding into the seat across from him. That suit had to cost more than he made for each appearance for IIW, even though the money was good, as perfectly-tailored as it was. Archer Starke was a handsome man, just starting to sport a little silver in the temples that made him look distinguished and wise. It was the absolute lack of human emotion and empathy that had earned him the nickname of “Barracuda” on Wall Street. That icy gaze swept from the booze bottle to Sev’s bloodshot eyes, a shark-like grin flashing across his features.

“A part of me didn’t think you’d show up,” Archer began, only to be cut off by a rude noise from across the table.

“I want proof that she is alive. Unharmed.” It wasn’t a question, and the rasp in his voice carried more than a thread of steel. His patience had been tested far beyond the breaking point. The bottle of booze was almost empty and so was his capacity for human decency. The MONSTER wanted nothing more than to smash and rage like it had done with poor Kenny, unwilling now to return to its prison. The anger kept him warm, and gave him purpose. So did the loathing that was in the back of his throat, bitterly metallic like old pennies.

“Of course.” LJ’s father withdrew the latest model of iPhone from his inside pocket, tapping the screen before setting it on the table next to the bottle. A video began to play, thankfully without sound. He could see the anguish on his wife’s face, the tears streaming as she begged – he didn’t need captions or audio to know what she was asking for. The pain in her eyes, the way she shook with each wracking sob was enough.

Sev closed his eyes, looking to the left, as though he had a sudden interest in the flow of people down below, even though he couldn’t make out a single detail past the tears that burned his eyes. He didn’t blink. Waited until the anger burned them up before he made eye contact again – the tell had been enough though and he could almost feel the glee that sadistic prick was revelling in. It took everything in him not to snatch up that bottle and bash it over the man’s head until there was nothing left but a greasy smear of hamburger meat.

“As you can see, she’s fine. In time, she’ll accept the truth.” Archer plucked up the phone and tucked it away again, smoothing the invisible wrinkles from his suit jacket.

“What truth?” The words slipped out before he could check them.

A mocking chuckle escaped the older man’s lips as he shook his head. “It’s almost comical how clueless you truly are, Yurievich.” The way he stressed Sev’s last name made it sound like the worst kind of slur. “Gutter trash scum, and you think you can put your dirty hands on my little girl? You think you can poison her against us and run away with her for your cute little happily-ever-after fairytale?”

“She was poisoned long before I ever knew her,” Sev countered, “and she is capable of making her own choices. She is strong enough to choose freedom, to choose a life where she is cherished and loved – not one where she is degraded and traumatised.”

Archer laughed, shaking his head. “Who do you think you’re kidding? I’ve seen your finances. I know you don’t make enough to support her, to support a family with this wrestling business, let alone those pathetic acting jobs you took with the Splat Network.”

Sev said nothing. The bonus he’d received when he’d signed with IIW was substantial, even better now that he was holding championship gold. He had offers coming in already from other promotions, from other one-off events wanting him to headline – of course he didn’t bother to dignify those low-hanging barbs. He knew with another year or two riding the wave of success like this and he could certainly transition to training or part time with a sizable nest egg socked away for retirement. If he could unify the Crimson and Merciless Championships in The Entity, it could be another hell of a bargaining chip for the rest of the year. Double champion looked good on paper, especially when the wins kept racking up.

He could still hear all the voices of condemnation, whispering insidiously in his ears, intent on eroding that silver lining at all costs. His former rivals, his former partner, even those who claimed to be good and godly.

You’re too ugly to be a champion.

You’ll never get over with the fans, Slava. You have no charisma, no charms.

They didn’t even care enough to give you a name.

Every ugly thing that had ever been said was being repeated by the chorus of shrieking demons in his head, making his blood boil. The anger percolated in his guts, purified and distilled into an unholy rage that washed over him, bringing with it a deathly calm. He pulled in a slow breath through his nose, holding it until the silence stretched beyond awkward and into excruciating. He refused to speak first, refused to submit to this pompous piece of shit’s will.

“We’re old money, Yurievich – our kind doesn’t mix well with carnie orphans. This isn’t a Dickens novel–”

“If you have only come here to taunt and insult, save it. I am exhausted.” He flexed his aching fingers and then began to peel the tape away from his left wrist, watching as the dried blood flaked off, dusting the tabletop in crimson snow. He spoke slowly, carefully enunciating every word so that the meaning would be clear. “It would do you good to find a replay of yesterday’s Mayhem broadcast,” he said it conversationally, “to understand precisely the frame of mind I am in and why this is not an idle threat when I tell you that I will finish what she started and purge you from our lives forever. Do you understand?”

DO. YOU. SEE?

“Two hundred and fifty thousand.”

Sev looked up as he crumpled the soiled tape in his fist, “excuse me?”

“A quarter of a million. Paid out now. Another thirty invested into a trust that will pay out with interest to you and that half-commie brat in a decade. All you have to do is walk away. Sever all ties. Annul the marriage. Run off to the UK or Japan or wherever it is your little heart desires–”

“Fuck you.” He snarled the words, eyes narrowed dangerously. “There is no price in the world you can put on what we have – she is everything to me. Not a possession. Not a doll to be posed and trotted out as a trophy. She is my best friend. My heart. My soul.” He pushed up to his feet, grabbing the handle on that pink suitcase that rested beside his chair. “Even if this is all a bluff, even if I never see her again, we will have those memories. You can’t take that from me. From us.”

“Your funeral,” Archer said with a laugh.

“No.” Sev replied, that raspy growl he usually used on-camera for THE MONSTER MACHINE seeping through, “it will be yours.”


My patience has worn thin. My desire for an actual CHALLENGE, a viable contender to MY LEGACY continues to go unanswered. There are those, even now, who still refuse to accept the truth, to see the writing on the wall. There are those who failed to listen, to pay attention to the way everything I have predicted has come true. The critics, they are ravenous – pitiful scavengers. Their lies gain traction, repeated by those whose eyes have never once been open in their lives.

Yet here I am before you, this so-called public persona stripped bare, FLAYED open to the core. Divested and defiled by their sentiments, desecrated by recognition. Reach in, you damned vulture. Take a bone. Suck out my marrow.

I hear the whispers, now and the social media likes from the circle jerk have waned. The Mecca dwindles in numbers. I can smell their fear. The truth is ugly business and I am not Willy Wonka. I do not sugarcoat. Some still believe this is a fluke, that I am living on borrowed time.

DO YOU NOT LISTEN?

I told you that the Legacy Championship will only leave my possession when I decide I no longer want it.

WHEN I GROW WEARY OF BREAKING YOUR TOYS.

These pigs, they want to revel in their muck. They want to have their cake, gobble it up until their little pig bellies burst. They want it all, and want nothing to do with the work that goes with it. These fickle creatures are the worst. They hate me one moment and profess their love the next. Since Hiroshima, I have been waiting for the public outcry, waiting for the plucky hero to take point position, brandishing the pitchfork. Instead they send sheep into the dragon’s den?

I ACCEPT YOUR GIFT. 

Do you truly believe that you are WORTHY, Jay Vaughn? Oh, I have watched your little videos. I have seen your best efforts. Are you coming for me now? Will you light your silver-tongued little torch, ready to banish the TRUE MONSTER that has sullied your precious ranks?

I am nothing like you, Vaughn. I do not ride around in limousines, Googling stock quotes and buying shit I don't need just to prove that I have the liquid assets to do so.

Fuck you AND your contempt.

You want to drive me out? Take a scalpel and excise me as though I'm some unwanted malignancy on Mayhem? I know that my declarations cry out for the inevitable rebuttal – machines break down. They rust. They BREAK.

They are also created for a singular purpose.

They do not think.

THEY DO NOT FEEL.

“Fighting champion” is not a foreign concept to me. The fact that you have earned NOTHING outside of my contempt is the truth here. You will not beat me. You will NEVER beat me.

I KNOW MY PURPOSE.

Disintegration Machine. Soul Reaver. Career Ender.

You want to hold a championship. You want to wield the power, to hold them all in awe in the palm of your hand. You want to dominate but you don’t know the first thing about it. You know what you’ve read in books. What social media has taught you: that the more fools you can bring along for the ride, the more you truly mean. For the last year, I have been holding myself to a higher standard. I have been testing myself, letting the furnace run hotter and hotter and hotter each time. Simple little definitions, but are those really me? Not really. I have been stirring for a while now this fermenting mixture of words and thoughts like a homemade bathtub concoction hidden in the dark of my basement. Secreted away like prohibition time. Deep down inside me, at the core, these things resonate, sounding through me like some sort of death knoll.

THE DANCE OF THE DAMNED HAS BEGUN.

AGAIN.

The pendulum swings, striking, and I RESONATE. Quiver with fear. Vibrate with anger--

RIGHTEOUS FURY.

Both and neither. Burning each other up. Consuming until nothing is left, until all sense of self is lost and only the MONSTER remains. No thought needed, hardwired to destroy. Raze and ruin.

THE INSECTS WILL BE CRUSHED.

ONE BY ONE. SYSTEMATICALLY.

Stealing words and ideas from others does not make me a star. It makes me mundane. It makes me just like them.

THESE HALLS WILL SOON BE EMPTY.

"And this, too, shall pass away." How much it expresses! How chastening in the hour of pride!

These are not my words, but they are appropriate here. You can look them up, find the source. I am too tired to connect all the dots for you today. I am sick of coddling children, of reading aloud to the myopic. I did not sign up to be a gatekeeper, to be your babysitter. I did not agree to thin the herd because the ever-revolving door of General Managers are too kind to separate the chaff from the wheat. Oh, but this flies directly in the face of those expectations and those promises made. How hypocritical of me. How lazy. 

MY LEGACY IS VIOLENCE.

PAIN.

BROKEN BONES.

MISERY.

How much longer can I continue to grind these gears, to chew up the trash? I burn, white-hot. Am I THEIR incinerator now? Another perverted use, another leash being looped over my head? No. Absolutely not. 

I WILL KILL YOU FIRST.

Broken Machine, stuck in a repetitive cycle. Rusted Machine, blood and gristle clogging the gears. Hang a sign: USE AT YOUR OWN RISK. There is danger here, Vaughn. There is a warning in these words, should you choose to receive it. Will you heed? Will you acknowledge?

You will get no pity, no REPRIEVE. I am not a sympathetic killing machine. You get what you deserve. You choose to be like Kenny, like the others who have fallen in my wake, then I will enjoy every last moment of what’s to come. Get your affairs in order, Vaughn. 

YOUR WORDS MEAN NOTHING.

YOU MEAN EVEN LESS.

DO YOU SEE NOW?

DO. YOU. SEE?