QUESTIONS & ANSWERS (Chapter 33: Laughing) [wgwf]

The rabid TPW fans had dispersed nearly an hour ago, leaving the AT&T Stadium deserted. His ears were ringing as he sat in sweat-soaked and humiliated misery on the wooden bench in the back of the glorified broom closet that had served as the WGWF locker room – the rest of the talent had been more than eager to get the hell out of Texas. Being in the main event hadn’t afforded him that same luxury, but he would have been one of the first to sneak out if he hadn’t been. The night was a disaster. He’d heard the rumblings as talent passed by while he was preparing himself to go out there. He should be showering. He should be going out there to see if any ENIGMA fans were lingering, looking for a photo opportunity or an autograph. He should be doing a lot of things, but Sev couldn't bring himself to move from where he sat.

His hands wouldn't stop shaking.

He held his wedding ring between his fingers, rubbing the last bits of glue from the tape off its silvery surface. The side of his pinky finger was sticky – he rubbed at it absently, wishing he could ditch the humiliation as easily with a little friction. The fact that Knox hadn’t pulled off the win gave him no joy, not when his eyes were still burning from whatever in the hell Peter Vaughn had doused them with. His pulse was pounding in his ears, drowning out the whisper of the air being pushed through the vent above his head.

They’re all laughing at you.

His hands were still shaking. The rage was there in the back of his throat, metallic and bitter, nauseating. With a sigh, he bowed his head, reaching up to rub his face with both hands. "Goddamn Vaughn," he muttered under his breath, the words muffled by his palms. His fingernails dug into his scalp while the heels of his hands pressed hard against his burning eyes.

They’re all laughing at you.

"Go away," he snapped, "leave me alone." His hands were still shaking, even clasped together between his knees.

He'd sent Elle on a mission to scavenge whatever beverages she could find left behind at the catering table, hoping to buy enough time to pull himself together.

"Hey—" Elle froze in the doorway, surprised to see him still sitting there in his sweaty ring gear – she'd expected him to be just getting out of the shower by now. Instead he was sitting in the middle of that empty room, clearly talking to himself. "Sev?" Putting the bottles down on a nearby table, she made her way to where he was and put a hand on his shoulder. "You did the best you could," she forced a smile that died in the face of his stoic silence. Seeing him like this scared her. "Are you okay?"

He said nothing for a long moment, staring at the floor as he pressed his hands together tighter. His arms were trembling now, too. She could probably feel it through his shoulder. "I want to kill him." The words fell from his numb lips as he closed his eyes, trying to find a quiet place in his own head that wouldn't stop clamouring for blood and Peter Vaughn’s head on a pike.

She immediately straddled the bench, facing him as her blood ran cold – she knew who he meant, even without him uttering the name. Even before he’d torn off that silly disguise, she’d thought the man wielding the camera looked familiar. "As much as I’d love to see that," she gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, "he’s already gone."

"A pity," he replied, opening his eyes because all he could see was that smirk on Vaughn's stupid face in his mind. He had been seconds from turning the tide, from finally getting to pin Knox and it had all gone to shit. To make matters worse, Vaughn had thrown his own schtick back at him, applauding mockingly as Mac Bane swooped in and stole the three.

THEY’RE ALL LAUGHING AT YOU.

Automatic motions had rolled him out of the ring after the bell. They'd kept him moving up the ramp with a blank stare while Mac had celebrated his tainted little victory. "What a joke."

You’re a joke.

"Stop it," he snapped, unable to hold in the words and frustration any longer.

Elle froze in the middle of her attempt to start massaging the knotted muscles in his shoulders, immediately taking a step back. "Sorry. I..."

Looking up, he realised what he’d just done and the last part of his heart that was intact shattered. "No. I didn't mean..." he sighed, shaking his head, "my brain... just will not quit. Didn't mean to snap at you." Letting out a groan, he buried his face in his hands.

Once again, he’d been prophetic. Max Stone’s insult had set the tone, giving the fools the impression that they could poke the monster without consequences.

"What are you going to do? Challenge Vaughn to another match?"

The thought was unappealing. So was the alternative of slinking back to WGWF in silence with his tail between his legs.

Both arms went around him as she pulled in closer to him, almost clambering into his lap to snuggle against his chest. "Peter Vaughn is still a joke. What did he prove tonight? That he’s a bitch who can’t beat any of you in a match so he has to play stupid games? Doesn’t matter one bit. You’re still the SMASH Champion. You’re still going to be defending that next show and you’re going to walk out a winner." She sounded eerily sure, as if she knew something he didn't. "Let him have this, Sev. Everyone knows you’re better. Better than Knox. Better than Peter Vaughn. Better than this whole dumpster fire of a company." Leaning forward, she kissed the side of his head and kept him in her embrace.

Every inch of his body ached from the match. Drawing in a shallow breath, he tried to take comfort in her embrace but it just wasn't there. The air conditioning that was cooling the sweat on his neck was doing nothing to douse the flames of indignant anger roaring inside him. He shuddered as more grisly images played out, saying nothing.

She pulled back, concerned. "I need you to look at me." Her voice was stern, but not harsh. Her hands moved up and tried to cup his face. "Sev, please look at me," her thumbs caressed his cheeks.

His eyes lifted to hers, and she could see that dark rage in them. "I want to hurt him. I need to hurt every last one of them." He swallowed hard, "because they're laughing at me. I know they are."

"They are not." Her hands lingered on his face before they slid down and found the top of both of his hands. "That's just your anxiety talking. We're gonna go back to the hotel and you are going to take something to relax. I hate seeing you like this."

He'd spent the last two years burying the truth deep inside him and now it kept bubbling up even as he tried to stuff it back where it belonged. He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath and holding it until his lungs felt like they'd burst. Slowly, he exhaled. "I am not a joke."

"Damn right you're not."

He chuckled bitterly, "his poison's everywhere. We need to—" he pulled out of her grasp and moved to his feet, his knees popping loudly. "We need to get out of here before I do something I will surely regret tomorrow."

Rather than remind him that everyone was already gone, she nodded in agreement, wanting just as badly as he did to get back to the hotel and away from any chance of seeing his apparent nemesis. "Yes, let's go." She went over to the locker that had his name written on it in Sharpie on masking tape and pulled out his street clothes, stuffing them into his duffel bag.

"Maybe there's a flight somewhere tonight. Maybe... just a car and we can drive anywhere but here." The words were tumbling out without much though. "I can drive for a few hours, I think—"

"No," the word came out as sternly as she had sounded before while she shook her head. "We're going back to the hotel and you're going to sleep. When you're rested, then we'll get a flight anywhere you want to go – but you're sleeping first."

"I'm not tired," he protested, even though he felt like a stiff breeze could knock him on his ass. The fight had taken every bit of energy from him – at least what little energy he had thanks to all the sleepless nights that were finally taking their toll. He couldn't quite banish the urge to flee that was making every nerve ending in his body tingle.

She zipped up the bag and tossed it at his feet before folding her arms against her chest. "You're not changing my mind on this." The look on her face said it all.

He stared at her for several seconds before breaking eye contact. "Alright, maybe just a few hours."

"Okay," she managed a warm smile as she watched him pick up the bag, tossing it over his shoulder. She immediately stepped up beside him, wrapping an arm around his waist. "Lean on me, baby." He'd always been so strong for her and now it was finally time for her to return the favour.

His hands were still shaking as she helped him out into the hallway. Barely coherent, he limped along, head low and fingertips trailing over the painted cinder blocks. His heart rate had slowed to a languid boil. His head hadn't. It still pulsed with every passing second. Propped against a pillar in the parking garage, he waited while Elle unlocked the door of their rental car, watching with detachment as her hands shook, too. He pretended not to notice and then his ears were ringing again and that metallic taste had returned at the back of his throat. The urge to kill was rising again. Choking. Making him see red.

YOU’RE A JOKE.
THEY’RE ALL LAUGHING.

She flung open the door, leaning in to put the key in the ignition.

He smelled something musty – like the basement he’d rescued her from in the summer – and briefly wondered if that meant he was seconds away from grand mal convulsing on the oil-stained concrete. Maybe these last seven months had all been some coma dream, like that story on Reddit about the man with his perfect life, utopia unravelled by that lamp in the corner that didn’t look quite right. If this was a dream, it wasn't a good one. 

She looked up at him, brittle smile shattering, lips drooping in a frown as the colour drained from his face. "Oh hell, Sev."

"M'alright," he mumbled, ears ringing louder as the car park went in and out of focus. On the verge of passing out, he almost fell into the passenger seat, immediately leaning forward to put his head between his knees, breathing shallowly. His ears were ringing. His mouth flooded with saliva. He felt like he was going to puke and then the cool fingers trailed down his spine in a loving caress. His wife's hands were both on the steering wheel.

THEY HAVE FORGOTTEN WHO YOU ARE, THESE FOOLS.
THEY NEED A REMINDER.
I WILL SHOW THEM.
LET. ME. OUT.

His hands were in view when his vision cleared and they finally stopped shaking as the wall came crumbling down. Those alien thoughts blended with his own, taking root and crystallising into the beginnings of a plan.


Damage. The Untamed Demon. We meet again. And I wish I could say it was under favourable circumstances – alas, you are not so lucky. Oh, I know you believe you are a true contender. You believe deep in your heart of hearts that you EARNED this opportunity, as though wading through the muck and mire of endless Johnny Stylez promos and emerging with your sanity relatively intact is a claim to fame? I know you believe you can beat me. You think you’re the hero of this story. The kind of scrappy underdog that everyone loves to cheer for. Sure, Sly Stallone made a name for himself on that kind of tale back in the 70's but we both know that you were the true WEAKEST LINK in that little tag match of ours.

You have your sights set on my championship. Of course you do.

I have MY sights set on getting through this match without giving into the urge to kill that’s been rising up within me since Max Stone slapped my face in front of tens of thousands watching around the world. I know the aspiration is natural. Climbing the ladder of success, I mean. Nobody wants to tread water, repeating the same futile motions over and over. We all want to see our names up there on the marquee. We want to be on the billboard at Times Square. We want to be on the PPV poster. We want our names to be uttered in reverent whispers. That's human nature, though, isn’t it?

Of course.

We need to leave footprints on the moon.

We need to leave ripples in the pond.

BLOODSTAINS ON THE CANVAS.

You believe you can do this. Unhinged, unfettered, chaotic. I am sick of these lesser beings, pretending they understand the DARKNESS. Pretending they have been to hell and back. Acting as though lying their way through life will get them all they desire. You're going to tell me that this isn't a difficult task because you've had opportunities before – opportunities you squandered. You probably hate me for putting your flaws on display but I need you to know that I see you, Damage.

I am here to expose the lies.

I WILL INCINERATE YOU.

You won't EVER be a legend. You won't be anything more than another footnote in my title reign and when the dust has settled and your blood has clotted, you will make another sorry excuse and shuffle your feet. You'll fake a few steps and pretend you still know how this so-called DANCE TO GLORY goes but it'll be over before you know it. You won't be around long enough to question what the hell just happened.

It’s not about glory.

About the championship.

It’s about what SMASH tasked me to do. He wanted to change this business. He wanted to make it a better place.

THERE IS NO DANCE TO GLORY.

NOT FOR YOU.

YOU ARE DAMNED.

It's funny to me how much of this past year has been about growth, about building a legacy. It’s not just that, though, is it? It’s about rebirth. It’s about paying homage to those who have passed on far too soon and I have felt a bit like that survivor, rising from the wreckage with my pockets full of stolen time. You can't hold that close to the vest. No. A victory like that has to be shouted from rooftops, screamed into the wind because it always feels like if you don't acknowledge in the most bombastic way, the universe will surely claw it back.

The old me, the younger, less world-weary me was always careful to do just that and some days I felt more like a salesman knocking on doors than any sort of professional athlete. I've worn so many hats over the years, it's no wonder my head is bald. All these things I've done. All the places I've been and the people I've beaten, all the golden trinkets I've racked up – they're all listed somewhere – the details, though, are hazy at best. I'm not trying to play HIPSTER DOUCHE right now. Not at all. I'm just trying to say that the longer you do something, the more it all becomes routine. For a guy like me, that's important. That sort of structure, I suppose. Otherwise, I start to drift. And for a while, that was great. I had all these places on my list. All these pinned points on the globe that I wanted to get to again. Japan. England. Alaska.

I said it a year ago, when I tagged with JMont in another place that doesn’t matter now. I said I wanted to live long enough to see the Northern Lights again. I want to breathe crisp, clean air through a nose that isn’t crooked, that hasn’t been broken a thousand times over. I want to pull in a deep breath and not feel a twinge in my back. I want to hoist my daughter in the air, put her on my shoulders and not feel that ache in the joint that I know only an invasive surgery that I can’t afford will cure.

I want this to end on MY terms.

Not yours.

Monday night, I will give everything I have left. I will do everything I can to repress this sick urge even as I see your twisted frame laid out at my feet. I can feel MY gold still in my grasp. I can smell the slaughterhouse reek of blood and I can hear the frenzied crowd losing their minds over your demise.

I WANT THAT.

SO BAD.

The animal inside me gnashes its teeth, hungry for vengeance. The fires have been raging for a week, consuming everything and now all I want is to DESTROY. I want to roll around in your BLOOD, laugh in the face of your cheap BRAVADO. I want to tear you apart.

HELLO, DAMAGE.

WELCOME TO YOUR FUNERAL.
ANY LAST WORDS?