QUESTIONS & ANSWERS (Chapter 32: Uncivil War) [wgwf/tpw]

Elle was pacing inside the locker room, her heart racing even as she heard the monitor behind her shift to another segment, to more of the childish antics of Montuori and his crew. She didn’t care about that. The moment she’d seen the blatant disrespect from Max Stone when he’d hauled off and belted her husband across the face, she’d been livid. She wanted to storm out to the ring and jump on his back, all claws and fangs like some feral predator – she hadn’t felt true anger like that in ages. The door crashed against the wall and she heard his laboured breathing before she turned around, flinching at the clatter of the championship belt as he flung it against the lockers. His mouth was open, lips skinned back from his teeth in a snarl and she could see they were bloody. It could have been from his theatrical entrance but she knew that was nothing more than corn syrup and red food dye. This looked darker, more visceral and she wondered if that slap had been as hard as it had sounded.

“Sev,” her voice came out shaky, her hand immediately outstretched as though she wanted to gentle that raging beast that she saw in his wild gaze.

He leaned against the wall, feeling the cool plaster against his back – somewhere between the ring and here, he’d lost his jacket amidst one of several tussles with security. No cameras rolling. No reason to pursue it but Stone had blindsided him. Lord only knew where the damned thing would end up, if some asshole fan hadn’t snatched it up already to auction off on eBay. Closing his eyes, he tried to breathe slowly, trying like hell to dial back the rage that had the adrenaline coursing through his veins, his blood boiling to a fever pitch.

The goddamned disrespect. Going to need to teach him a lesson. He wants to talk about the end? Push up that date. Make it NOW. TONIGHT. To hell with Porter’s little vanity show.

At the sharp intake of breath from his wife, he realised he may have just said all that aloud. There were no filters at the moment, the wall that separated MAN from MONSTER completely obliterated. He held his breath until it hurt, until he wanted to cough up a lung because his throat felt so raw from ranting and raging. The kid had seven months to stew on everything he’d said in IIW, when he’d dared to step out of the perfect little box and the lane they wanted him to stay in, with that gimme title they’d apparently “created just for him”. That still rankled, the seed of doubt that Stone had planted had never sprouted. No, it’d been diseased from the get-go and it had lain dormant all this time, leeching its poison into the very bedrock of his entire WGWF and XWF runs, perverting his perceptions until the only goddamned thing that mattered was keeping the glory, keeping the GOLD close at all costs. And now what waited for him? A three-way clusterfuck with the only man who’d pinned him in the middle of the ring AND the biggest bitch in the industry. Mac Bane and Matt Knox. Did the match matter? No. In all honesty, he wanted to pull the same stunt that Knox had for Japan. Vanish off the face of the earth. Let those two duke it out over the rights to screw Amber Ryan for all he cared.

You’d never live that down. He would spend the next fifteen years crowing from the rooftops about it. Of course, he’d never directly namedrop, king of blurred lines that he is. No. You’ll just be a punchline in his next 50 Shades fanfic. Finish what was started over a year ago. Then we’ll finish Stone. One worthless piece of shit at a time.

“Sev,” her fingertips grazed his shoulder, feeling the tremors that coursed through him at her touch. He tensed, stiffening slightly, damn near biting his own tongue in the effort to keep those poisonous thoughts from spilling out, from entangling her as well. Utterly oblivious, Elle traced one of the veins, stopping when she hit the ridge of that white scar that cut a diagonal line right through the middle of his bicep. She’d never asked him where that had come from and it wasn’t because she didn’t want to know. It was because every time he peeled back another layer, the hardships he’d endured over the years of this nearly thirty-year career shattered her heart. She wanted to wrap him in bubble wrap, to protect him for the rest of eternity from the world that had been so unkind. She could never tell him that, though. Could never list off all those injustices that she’d been tabulating in her head, begging the universe to mete out the karma those wrongs deserved.

“Seven months,” the words spilled past his numb lips, his voice barely above a raspy croak, “five miserable months less than a year and the best he could do was try and slap the taste from my mouth?”

He licked his lips, out of necessity more than for emphasis, tasting the bad penny copper of blood and it was like dumping gasoline on the flames. She saw those pupils dilate, saw the coldness wash over him and when he straightened his posture, she saw that twinge at the corners of his lips and eyes, that flicker of agony. He knew she saw that tell, saw the flicker of something akin to pity flash in her gaze and he pushed past her with a growl, crossing the room in a few uneven strides. He sank down on the hideous sofa with a weary sigh and a twang of protesting springs only to hunch forward to alleviate the twinge in his lower back. He needed a massage. He needed less bullshit travel in cramped seating. He peered at the floor, looking down at the scuffed toes of his wrestling boots, saying nothing.

Nothing worse than the no-sell.

“You think I don’t know that?” He snapped the words, stopping his wife in her tracks as she looked at him strangely.

“What?”

He shook his head, lifting one hand to scratch his beard before scrubbing it across his lips, as if he wanted to wipe away that bitter taste of disrespect. Deep down, he suspected this was going to set a tone for the week and he hated how small and insignificant that made him feel, as if these little pissants from TPW had the right to step up and assume equality? What a fucking joke.

“Don’t let them get to you,” Elle murmured, walking up behind him. Her fingers were cold – they always were and that’s why it felt so damned good when she started rubbing the knot of tension where his neck met his shoulders. “They’re watching your every move. They’re hanging on every word – of course they’re going to feel small, they’re going to need to try and yank that power away. And what did it accomplish, hmm? Who looks like a bitch right now? Sure, Mighty Max Stone got the first shot in.” He could hear the rolling of her eyes in that disdainful tone. “Good for him. What did he do with it besides get chokebombed into next week?” He said nothing but groaned as she worked on those tense muscles; she continued, undaunted, feeling bolder than she had in months. “I don’t know why you care what they think. You know the level of work you put in to get here. Everyone in this company, not just on the SMASH brand, knows who you are – you checked Peter Vaughn’s ego. TWICE. John Cable took you to the absolute limit and couldn’t get the job done. Joe Montuori was so afraid of you after you tangled in PWE and you beat him in two of three falls that he did everything in his power to keep you neutered, keep you caged and at his side, exploiting your loyalty. There isn’t a single person in this company who can call themselves your equal, let alone claim they’re better than you–”

He pulled in a breath, ready to interject and she cut him off.

“No. Don’t you even try to name-drop Mac Bane. You think if you hadn’t relinquished that World Championship–”

“I didn’t want it,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I told Vaughn that. I took it because I could. Nothing more.”

Took the crutch. No legs left to stand on.

“I know that, Sev.” She sighed, almost exasperated. “What I’m saying is that you can let Mac Bane and Matt Knox do their Superman and Lex Luthor bullshit and you can just sit back and pick the scraps. You don’t have to smash yourself to bits for their sake, or even for WGWF’s sake because this match doesn’t even matter – it’s a dick-measuring contest and nothing more. It’s not a showcase. It’s not meant to elevate anyone. You could skip the whole thing entirely and it would have absolutely no impact on your career.”

He bristled at those words, despite the fact that he knew she was right. Nothing would come of this but bragging rights and he had already spent the last goddamned year CEMENTING a legacy that would endure well beyond the remaining days of his career. The hollowness, the emptiness of that fucking NOTHING that waited for him on the other side was what fanned the flames, the desperation to claw at relevance as long as he could hiding behind that need for violence and that unslaked thirst for blood.

“Fuck Knox,” the vitriol was back in his wife’s voice, “he ducked you then because he knew your star was on the rise. And now, this match only exists because of a technicality. Their so-called best against WGWF’s – not like he asked for it. Not like he wanted it. Think about it, Sev. He’s the wrestling equivalent of gum on the bottom of your shoe – annoying, sure. Is he going to do any lasting damage? No. He’ll melt under heat. He’ll crack under pressure and fall away to the wayside. Utterly meaningless.”


More than anything, I wish I was facing Mac Bane on his own. Claw back that win he has over me from that iiW tournament. It’s insane that it feels like a thousand lifetimes ago rather than a year. I would love to face Mac Bane. Showcase the top champions on each of WGWF’s brands. Rather do this than insult every fan in attendance by even ENTERTAINING the notion that you’re on OUR level. Your very existence annoys me. You know why I refrain from engaging with you on social media, don’t you? No. I’m sure your ego whispers sweet nothings in your ears, tells you that I am avoiding the truth you believe you wield as a weapon. Out of sight, out of mind – you do not require my gaze to play KING OF THE CASTLE. Your vague little barbs, your veiled little insults have gone unnoticed – even now, I haven’t bothered to look. You are still muted. You will continue to be INSIGNIFICANT to me long after our match is done.

And I know what you’re thinking: didn’t I say that I was looking forward to finally crossing your name off my dance card? Granted, this isn’t Korakuen Hall. It isn’t Japan, in a packed house with the ghosts of wrestling royalty and the richest history imaginable haunting every corridor. No. We’re meeting in a far less desirable place.

Texas. Fucking TEXAS.

Truth be told, I wish that Joe Montuori had taken that championship from you on February 2nd. You know why that is? I know logic isn’t your strong suit, so I’ll be kind and connect the dots. It’s the same reason I needed to wrest that gold from Vaughn – it means everything to you. It’s a definition. It’s an accessory, a shiny bauble in the clutches of a scavenger to be waved around any time someone dares to question your worth. Good for you, Knox. You overcame the odds, retained with the help of Junko, by the machinations of someone else with a vested interest and a vendetta. Not that I am pointing fingers at being an opportunist. Those who lack the means to get things done by their own merit will always use others for their benefit. Sorry, was that too vague?

Keep your little Red Corvette out of harm’s way – I will not bat an eye at collateral damage. The way I see it, the more blood on my hands, the more spilled on the canvas, the truer this WAR becomes.

Normandy. Vimy Ridge. WWI and WWII. There have been bigger, more global skirmishes than these pathetic little “wars” that you Americans so love. The North versus the South. Vietnam. Korea. Afghanistan. What do you have in common with all of these? What does our little event, another regurgitation of US vs THEM have in common with those? Territorial pissings. Arrogance. You, Knox, you are the literal definition of HUBRIS. You believe yourself above all else. Your way is the right way. Your company is superior. Same shit, different branding.

Ozymandias. King of Kings. A crumbling relic amidst the ruins of something that was once great. A fitting metaphor for this business, isn’t it? Companies come and go, just like you. And how long will it be this time until you rack up another pile of receipts you cannot cash, until the waters rise above your head and you put the gun to your head again, expecting to laugh off that click on an empty chamber only to find the bullet lodged in your brain. Ahm, but you’re a mythical bird – the dark phoenix. You will vanish for a while. Lick your wounds. Bide your time and come roaring back as if nothing happened. How many times have you checked out? Checked in? Have you filled the punch card? Is the next stay complimentary with a suite upgrade and breakfast included? Do you ever get sick of running in circles, repeating the same motions over and over? Is that insanity or just arrogance? It’s hard to pick through the minefield of pretentious bullshit to truly sift out that nugget of intent. Does it matter? You could insert any name into your vague little diatribes and they’d fit.

Xerox. A copy of a copy of a fucking COPOUT. I would say this entire thing was a disappointment, but that would imply you matter enough for me to care. No.

GO ON, KNOX.

FEIGN KAMIKAZE.

SCOFF AND SNICKER.

SPIT IN THE FACE OF THE REAPER, DEFIANT TO THE END.
NONE OF THIS MATTERS.
DAMNATION IS INDISCRIMINATE, YOUR DESTRUCTION INEVITABLE.

I want to share a story, if you’ll indulge me – it’s relevant. See, you cite your origin story as that moment when a man named JACKSON beat a snot-nosed kid for his first championship. 2007. It wasn’t even important. He wasn’t even signed to the company. It was another cross-promotional deal and you were riding high, untouchable. He snatched that bauble and I doubt he even remembered doing it until you popped back up a decade later and gave him praise for turning you into the SUPERSTAR you’d become. And maybe that’s the most telling part, how much that fall from grace changed you. When I first met the man, it was a decade earlier. He used to carry around this laminated index card with a Latin phrase written on it. He’d stick it up in his locker before every match. Stare at it while he laced his boots. It said: acta deos numquam mortalia fallunt. Roughly translated, it means ‘mortal actions never deceive the gods’. I asked him what that meant to him, why he spent so much time staring at those words. He told me it was a way of reminding himself that he was fallible.

Strange, I suppose, to find myself still doing this long after he left us. I think he was wrong about what that quote meant. Not that I can correct him on it now. Oh, he’s not dead. He’s just more of a myth than anything else these days, vanished from social media completely. Barely remembered. Trotted out only in moments of convenience, where guys like Knox can bitch about how they learned so much, scratching and clawing to reach the summit only to be denied the chance to get that win back. Must really stick in your craw. The year you came back was the same one he retired. Gods. Legends. Myths. Which one are you aspiring to be, Knox? What do you have plastered on your vision board? Are they photos of your child? I picture something straight out of a horror movie: the serial killer den full of newspaper clippings and blacked-out faces in photographs. The portrait of envy. Of mental illness. Poor Knox. Everyone knows his name now. He is bad. Nationwide. Like the song. Yet he hungers for more. For something he can never have. And how horrible it must be for you. 

Denied that one thing you’ve so desperately wanted all this time. So you chase the next best thing. You knock down doors. You huff and puff and rant and rage.

Everything ends. Title reigns. Streaks. Careers.

And friendships. Relationships – they’re not meant to withstand the rigours we put on our lives. The travel. The stress. The strain. The constant drain on our mental batteries until we all become broken and insane.

Dead inside. That’s where we are now. At odds. With each other. With ourselves. Someone said recently that I was the pinnacle, that there was nobody on SMASH who could beat me or take my championship – I’m sure Mac would love to try. Someone called me a measuring stick and I am not sure I like that term. Even saying it now makes me cringe inwardly. I know what I have done but I am not like you. I don’t crow. I don’t brag and boast and I certainly don’t pretend like I am anything close to being the role model my daughter needs. Do I want to be a good man? Of course. Do I want to do right by my family? By this business? Absolutely. I am not a role model. I never aspire to be any more than I got into this looking to collect accolades and titles and everything else that makes you feel so fucking important.

GLORY IS WORTHLESS.
THIS MATCH IS MEANINGLESS.
LIKE YOU.