QUESTIONS & ANSWERS (Chapter 31: PANTS ON FIRE) [wgwf]
Jan 26, 2024 4:14:21 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Jan 26, 2024 4:14:21 GMT -5
Brighton Beach (Brooklyn), NY ||| January 18, 2024
(off camera)
(off camera)
HE HADN’T BEEN TO CHURCH in decades – they’d never changed. The smell of incense and dusty wood polish was instantly familiar and as he passed by the racks of votive candles, the few lit flames flickered. He didn’t pay them any mind. He’d passed by this place a hundred times on his way to the gym he frequented when he wasn’t using his equipment at home. The name had always struck him as funny: THE INEXHAUSTIBLE CHALICE. The mythical cup that’d never run dry. He knew it was meant to depict unconditional love, the most ludicrous of the bullshit tenets that Christianity was built upon.
Jesus loves the little children, the voice in his head whispered. I don’t. They can all rot. They can all BURN.
Today, those stained-glass windows and the warm light shining through them beckoned in a way he couldn’t explain. He’d outright lied to his wife for the first time and it was making him feel ill – told her that he was going to the gym. He’d known the moment he’d gotten behind the wheel and braved the messy roads into the city that he was coming here, to Little Odessa, to this Russian Orthodox Church nestled beside a quaint delicatessen and just a few blocks away from that boardwalk that was deserted this time of year.
You never skip leg day. For shame. What would Cable think, if he knew you were slacking like this? Disgraceful. Smash is rolling over in his grave, wishing it was anyone but a worthless fraud like you carrying on HIS legacy.
Ignoring that insidious voice in the back of his mind made the ache in his temples worsen. He’d thought about bringing the Smash championship here, about asking for the priest to anoint it with holy water the way Pyro had when they had purchased a new car upon arriving in America. The memory brought a wry twist to his lips, the ache of loss intensifying – perhaps this entire mess had all started then, when his procrastination had deprived him of closure, and the innate satisfaction of seeing a narcissistic piece of shit get what they deserved.
Deep down, he suspected that the moment he got near sanctified water, it would immediately start to bubble up and boil over. It was better to keep the MONSTER within hidden, to seek the balm his spirit sorely needed without drawing unnecessary attention to himself. Every step that drew him deeper into that holy place, the more surprised he became that he didn’t burst into flames like some cinematic vampire.
Silently, Sev slipped into the last pew, the wood creaking under his bulk as he leaned forward, pulling his cell phone from the pocket of his jacket. He still hadn’t replied to the message his wife had sent that morning. Their relationship was so strained that she’d started sending her thoughts this way. He knew it was motivated by fear, even if she claimed otherwise. The longer he stared at it, the more each and every letter stabbed into him until he felt as though he was bleeding out – death by a thousand cuts. He knew that hadn’t been her intent at all. She was trying to make peace, to bridge the gap that he’d created and that Herculean effort on her part just made the guilt that much more intense. The best thing that ever happened to her?
He felt a change in the air, felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise but he didn’t move. He knew he wasn’t alone anymore but the alarm bells weren’t ringing. Sliding the phone back into his jacket, he closed his eyes.
“Do you lie?” The words came out softly, spoken in Russian rather than the English that he’d been forcing himself to use for the last year.
“Don’t we all?” The reply was swift, the voice sounding as tired and worn as he felt inside. “Isn’t that human nature? The thing we seek absolution from – the original sin. We are all born unclean, washed fresh by the blood of the lamb.”
Sev snorted in derision, “there is not enough blood in one lamb to cleanse these sins; I would need an ocean.” Silence was his only reply to that snarky comment but he could feel that presence at his back still and it loosened his tongue. “I’ve tried so hard. To be the best at everything, all these plates in the air, spinning at once and they’re out of control. My wife… she’s hurting. I’ve alienated her, allowed things to happen that I’d never have been party to before – a fucking mockery.” He flinched at his own profanity, a bitter chuckle slipping out, “and now I’ve cussed in the Lord’s house.”
“He’s heard far worse.” The voice was gentle, almost forgiving. “So why are you here?”
“My cup is empty – nothing more to give. I can’t do this. I… can’t.”
The words came out before he could check them, the utter absurdity of that motivation making him fall silent again even as his voice broke. For a long time, he said nothing. He kept his eyes closed, simply breathing in and out because that was the only thing he could do with the shame and the guilt and the anger all waging war inside him. Eventually the levee broke and the tears flowed down his face. His hands clenched into fists, white-knuckled rage ready to spill out like bottled nitroglycerin. He took a breath. And another. In the midst of that emotional release, the maelstrom started to recede, a strange sort of calm falling over him the longer he sat there. An idea began to form – maybe it had been there all along but he was just too blind to see. He knew what he had to do, as if divine inspiration had just passed through him and he felt a lightness that had been missing for so long. The weight on his shoulders lifted just the tiniest bit.
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Cable, I have never lied to you. To be quite honest, I’ve never lied to anyone in this company. I do not hate you. Does this come as a surprise? I suppose with the way I came into the company like a tornado, like this force of nature hellbent on indiscriminate destruction, that it might seem strange. You’re not like the others, though. These hollow little men with their hollow little pursuits – screaming monkeys flinging their feces at the wall in the hopes they can create a masterpiece. Rarely happens.
BUT NOT YOU. NEVER.
JOHN CABLE IS TOO GOOD FOR THAT MICKEY MOUSE SHIT.
HE’S A REAL CHALLENGER.
You stood tall. You looked me in the eye. You shook my hand. Admirable, really.
I watched you overcome the odds to claim this golden ticket opportunity and you did it honourably, without the need for outside intervention and childish antics – ah, but that’s a topic for another time, perhaps?
This is about you and I. About David and Goliath, a slingshot, true aim and a little faith. I can’t hate you, Cable, because Smash chose you for his team and unlike the others selected, you did NOT disappoint. You were not a worthless RAVEN with a big mouth and an even bigger ego. You were CHOSEN. DEEMED WORTHY. Like me.
And a part of me doesn’t quite know how to handle that. Oh the MONSTER is still hungry, all gnashing teeth and dripping venom, ready to rip and tear and maim and I can’t promise that this won’t happen the moment we step between those ropes but I want you to know that in my heart of hearts, there is no malice.
MY HATRED IS UNIVERSAL.
MY RAGE ELEMENTAL.
UNCONDITIONAL.
THE CUP RUNNETH OVER, IN PERPETUITY.
MY RAGE ELEMENTAL.
UNCONDITIONAL.
THE CUP RUNNETH OVER, IN PERPETUITY.
I feel sickened to the core. These past few months have been a never-ending mental shitshow that drains me completely. My mind is stuck in limbo, obsessing over something I have no power to change. I've been mired for months, crumbling for weeks and I would call it depression if it were that simple. We both know it's not because I have been forthright from the beginning, even if nobody bothers to listen. And we both know the inevitable outcome of our little dance.
Damage said I was ducking you. Is that how you feel? Is that truly the perception, as though I asked for this extended timeline out of sheer laziness? No. They wanted our WAR to take place on the biggest stage, in the MAIN EVENT. I had nothing to do with that choice.
Was he speaking for you, then, when he accused me of cowardice? Or was that just another monkey flinging shit around?
Do you lie, Cable?
Tell me the truth. Tell me what you think of me.
You know what I fear and it's not the mythical Damoclean nightmare hanging by a horse's hair above my head because we both know it's deeper and infinitely more personal than something as simple as a sword lopping off my head when the thread breaks. If the championship leaves my hands, the levee breaks.
I WILL BE FREED.
It all falls down. Universes crumble because I am the glue holding it all together.
THIS IS IMPORTANT TO HIM.
HE LIES ABOUT ITS PURPOSE.
HE LIES ABOUT ITS PURPOSE.
WHAT A JOKE.
Titles are IMPORTANT. That’s what you believe, isn’t it? That the golden fucking albatross and all the accolades and applause of my peers and the welcoming arms of the Fortunate Ones to pick me up when I inevitably fall is what this is all about because heaven forbid I can stand on my own two feet without a crutch to bear my weight and gaze unflinchingly into the abyss… into the fucking FUTURE.
But I do see a future where there’s a championship around your waist. Smoking rubble in the distance, the Toxic Avenger John Cable in his Halloween mask standing tall, standing proud like an extra from a Mad Max parody – it makes for a nice image, I know. You would be the king of nothing, but a KING nonetheless. Is that what you want, John? Is that the future you see for yourself? A boot planted firmly on the neck of this industry, cutting off that vital blood until everything else fades away?
I look back in the distance, and see the smoking rubble for what it is. I'm aware of every goddamn mistake that brought me here and I don't need some armchair quarterback telling me that he can do it better. I have paid my dues time and time again. I have put in the work.
Do you know how many times I started from the bottom and clawed my way to the top over the last year? Do you know how it feels to look in the rearview now and see nothing but dust, to be the only one who remembers some of those places that shaped me into the MONSTER MACHINE I’ve become? Do you know how it feels when every day is bringing you one step closer to the end of it all? Do you?
Do you know what it's like to slowly fade away, John? You with your championship envy and Palahniuk-esque desire for self-annihilation – this isn’t Fight Club. You are no beautiful and unique snowflake, not an ENIGMA to me. I know you, John. I know what makes you tick. I know how you feel about me, deep down, even if you’re too damned afraid to admit it.
Once upon a time, we might’ve been friends.
Damn shame I have to destroy you.
YOU FUCKING LIAR.
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Rock Hill, NY ||| January 22, 2024
(off camera)
(off camera)
Since Christmas, the question of Elle escorting Sev to the ring had not been revisited. Even if she had been feeling quite combative lately, seeing how her husband reacted was enough of an answer. The idea had been something for them to bond over, as of late Elle felt so disconnected from her husband. Every time she thought about it, her wrist throbbed dully, reminding her of the big fight they’d had and what the result had been. During the course of knowing her husband, he’d never so much as said anything cross to her. He’d always been so supportive and ready to have her back at a moment’s notice. It was surreal to see him so angry with her. She would never admit it to him, but Sev had absolutely terrified her. She loved her husband and their daughter so much, it killed her that there was this canyon growing between them.
It was a cold winter’s night as Elle was finishing up in the kitchen with Lenore on her hip. The infant was almost eight months old and she was the apple of her mother’s eye. Before Lenore was born, the first-time mother hadn’t thought she could love anyone more than she did her husband, but the love she felt for their daughter blew her mind. As she finished wiping down their kitchen island, Lenore was babbling happily. She was just about to say something to the baby as she heard voices coming from the other room. She recognized her husband’s voice and soon after, Atticus, her uncle. Setting the rag she’d been using over the faucet to dry, Elle went to find out what was going on.
The two men stopped talking the moment she walked into the room, her uncle’s face breaking into a warm grin. “I was just telling Sev that I was in the neighbourhood and thought I’d drop by, see how everything’s going.”
The words were benign enough but she could tell by the dark look that passed over her husband’s otherwise neutral expression that something else was going on.
“Things are fine.” She locked eyes with Atticus for a moment before turning to Sev with a soft smile. “My love, can you take Mouse up and get her ready for bed?” She'd walked toward him as she asked, handing Lenore over. Stepping on her tiptoes, Elle kissed his lips gently. “I love you.”
“Of course,” he replied when the kiss broke, and then when he cradled her in his arms, felt something warm and heavy, suspecting their darling of a daughter had just left him a dookie bomb to deal with. She was notorious for that lately, as if she somehow knew when he was going to be the one getting her ready. “Though I think we may need to do a bit more than that.”
Elle couldn't help but laugh before kissing Lenore's cheek, knowing by her husband’s tone that he was going to be occupied for a while. Looking at the two loves of her life, she felt a swell of pride. She loved her family more than anything and there weren’t any lengths she was willing to go to preserve it. When her attention returned to Atticus, though, the warmth in her smile faded.
“Let's go into the kitchen; I'll make you a drink.” Not waiting for him to respond, she turned and made her way into the kitchen where there was a small bar set up. Taking out a cocktail glass, she turned to face him, her expression serious. She had a feeling she knew what he wanted to talk about and was glad her wrist had pretty much healed. There was still some pain, but she kept it at bay with pain pills. She'd been keeping a few things at bay with those pills. As soon as Atticus had his say, Elle would be retreating to their master clawfoot bathtub, but would be taking a pill before doing so.
Atticus watched as Sev climbed the stairs before following his niece into the kitchen, clearing his throat. “I really was in the neighbourhood,” he began with a light chuckle, “I’ve been doing some work for one of the ski resorts. Dropped off some paperwork in person today – old school – just so I had an excuse to stop in.” He leaned against the doorway, watching her fiddle with the bottles. “Jameson is fine. With a splash of water.”
“Comin’ up.” She flashed him a smile before making his drink. “I had a feeling you'd be showing up sooner or later.” They hadn't spoken much since the night she went to the ER. She finished the drink and handed it to him. “So… say what you came to say.”
“Am I that transparent?” Atticus took the glass and lifted it to his lips, taking a small swallow before setting it down on the counter beside him. “It wasn’t so much something to say as it was checking up on you.” He was still listed as her emergency contact, even though she’d been married for more than a year. It went without saying that he knew she’d been admitted to the hospital and that her refusal to explain how her injury had happened had definitely raised a few red flags.
Elle's shoulders lifted in a shrug before she crossed her arms against her chest. “No, but I know you and I know where your mind went when I was in the emergency room.” She swallowed hard remembering that night and suddenly she couldn't wait for the little pain pill that would make everything alright again. “Everything is fine. My wrist was an accident, that's all.”
“Right. An accident. You’ve said that and while it’s honourable and maybe a tiny bit admirable that you’re sticking to that story…” he pulled in a deep breath, as if steeling himself for what he was about to say, knowing it was going to potentially cross a line with her. “I’ve been watching him. In his little interviews, in his matches. Things have changed over the last six months; certainly you’ve noticed it. There’s that undercurrent that doesn’t seem to be some bombastic act, amped up and manufactured for the cameras. Elle, I want to make sure you’re safe. Both you and Lenore.”
She stared at him for a few moments and sighed, “Sev would never hurt Lenore or me,” at least not intentionally. No amount of prodding would get her to reveal what happened that night. That truth was their business and as much as she was grateful for the concern her uncle expressed, this didn't have anything to do with him. “Everything is fine.”
He held up his hands in surrender, “okay, fair enough. You know I’m just trying to look out for you.”
“I know that.” Looking up at Atticus, she suddenly felt like she wanted to break down. Everything wasn't fine and she wondered how long they could keep going on in this holding pattern. Biting down on her lower lip, she took a seat at the island on a stool. “Things aren't though, and I don't know what to do.” She felt the prickle of tears and she immediately rubbed at her eyes. “I feel like I'm losing him.” Taking a deep breath, she wrapped her arms around herself. “I think a part of him resents me because the day that Smash died, Sev missed the call. I had told him he needed to turn his phone off and get some sleep.” She was crying now, unable to stop all the pent up feelings that had persisted too long. “It's my fault he missed it.” She resented herself so much for that and he could see that mark of guilt and shame written all over her face.
Atticus could feel his heart breaking, seeing her crumble right before his eyes. “Has he told you that?” The question came out gently as he crossed the room, reaching out to rest his hand on her shoulder.
She carried on as if he hadn’t even spoken, the floodgates opened now and everything she’d been holding inside came spilling out. “Maybe if he’d picked up, Smash would still be here. Sev would still be doing their monthly shows instead of putting his body and sanity on the line every two weeks for WGWF, a company that doesn’t appreciate him, that doesn’t even have enough faith to book him like a fighting champion – oh, but he told me that didn’t matter. Told me he doesn’t care about this damned win streak that’s been ongoing since the summer. He said that he would show up regardless and he does, for those idiots who are just using him for clout. They almost got him arrested for crying out loud. And for what? Do you think Joe Montuori and Amber Mansley would cross the street if he needed help? No. He gives and gives and it makes me sick to see him drain himself completely for them week in and week out and when I asked him if I could be there, if I could help lessen that burden, he shut it down so quickly it made my head spin. A part of me can’t help but feel like I’m not good enough… that I’m unworthy and he just can’t say it.”
“Elle…” Atticus sighed, shaking his head. “I’m sure he had other reasons than that.”
“Right. Of course he did. He’s the only one who can do it.” Her tone drifted towards bitterness as she rolled her eyes, reaching for the drink she’d poured for him and taking a large swallow. “He’s carrying it all on his back, that company, that new brand… feels like he’s the only one who can do it, like that masked asshole somehow planted that idea in his head before he left this world when he didn’t even leave a message. And… I just can’t. I can’t watch him smash himself to bits against this glass ceiling over and over again until there’s nothing left.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said when she finally stopped, trying to catch her breath and blink away the tears that threatened to fall. “Has he said that he resents you… that he blames you? That he doesn’t want you around at shows? Or is this all in your head?”
“It isn't what he said; it's the energy I feel. Things have shifted and I am trying so hard to fix things and I don't fucking know how.”
“Far be it for me to give you advice on that front,” his chuckle was bitter, “I’ve made a huge mess out of nearly all my relationships. They tell me that communication is important… but with your-” he corrected himself smoothly, “my first wife, I always felt as though we were using the same words but speaking completely different languages.”
Elle nodded, swallowing back the lump in her throat before sighing. “Yeah. That’s exactly how it feels.”
“Does he know you’re feeling this way?” He paused for a moment, listening as the floor creaked upstairs. “The worst thing you can do is lie. To him. To yourself. Pretending it’s all roses when it’s anything but will only make things worse. Trust me. Talk this out. Get back on the same page. Before it’s too late.”
“Talk what out?” They both looked up to find Sev in the doorway, a smile on his lips that was miles away from reaching his eyes.
“I should go, before the roads get any worse than they already are,” Atticus said, his gaze flicking back and forth between LJ and her husband. When she nodded, he headed towards the kitchen doorway, surprised that Sev stepped back to let him pass without incident. The big man followed him, waiting until they were out of earshot before speaking in a low voice.
“She’s safe. I’d never hurt her. Intentionally or otherwise.”
“Then stop lying,” Atticus snapped, “she deserves the truth. All of it. Warts and all.”
“I know.”
