Q & A (Chapter 35: The NUMBERS Game) [smashed supershow]

Dutch's Tavern (Rock Hill, NY) ||| March 14, 2024
(off camera)

"Good evening, Sev."

His head was pounding, the sound of blood throbbing in his ears becoming another distraction as he lifted his eyes from watching the foam die down in his pint of cheap beer to meet the steely gaze of Atticus Stark as the lawyer slid into the booth across from him. The man hadn't even bothered with common courtesies, and that more than the hard look in his eyes spoke volumes. Sighing, Sev shook his head, saying nothing. A part of him had expected this meeting months ago. He'd foolishly hoped that it wasn't going to happen the more time passed.

"Nothing to say for yourself, hm?"

He pointedly ignored the deliberate provocation, instead lifting the lukewarm glass of beer to his lips. Maintaining eye contact as a sort of challenge, he forced himself to swallow even though it tasted like shit, keeping his features carefully neutral. "337."

Silence reigned for a moment before Atticus blinked, breaking the spell. "Is that number supposed to mean something?"

One massive shoulder twitched towards an idle shrug. "I suppose not. Days between dates – the last time we were here. Funny how many things have changed in so little time." He turned his gaze to the window, watching the rain slide down the glass. The day was shitty, uniformly grey and drizzling and he knew he'd have to walk the dog in this shit later. He hated dealing with messes – how ironic.

Atticus nodded to the waitress when she arrived with a heavy tumbler full of ice and what was undoubtedly the most expensive scotch in the place. When she was safely out of earshot, he broke the silence again. "You know why I'm here."

"Couldn't begin to guess," Sev snapped, unable to keep the sarcastic tone at bay. "I'm sure you are just itching to tell me, though."

His uncle-in-law almost recoiled from the barely masked hostility in Sev's voice. He could see the bloodshot eyes beneath the shadow of the baseball cap's bill. "You look like hell. Have you even slept today?"

"No." Understatement of the year. The man looked like he hadn't slept in three weeks, or more. Sunken hollows bracketed his reddened eyes, making him look older than the man seated across from him. Sev shook his head slowly, regretting that action almost immediately as it started to pound again. "Say what you came to say and be done with it already. My patience wears thin and I'm in no mood for whatever dick-measuring contest you have in mind."

"Cute."

"So, we can do this now," he paused, tongue pushing against the puffed-up scab on the inside of his lip— another war wound that had missed the initial injury cataloguing after the last trip to Duffy. "Or never. Your choice." He downed the rest of his beer, pushing the empty glass towards the edge of the table.

"Catherine suspects something's up. Not as though it's odd for the two not to see each other for months at a time, but there's only so long before a few texts won't suffice."

"Okay…and? I don't know why you're telling me this. The last time I saw him was the night he tried to break into my house and assault my wife – far more than a year ago." The lie was blatant, given that very public meeting in the airport lounge back in the summer. It was a calculated move, intended to make Atticus show his hand. Predictably, he took the bait.

"Bullshit." The word came out softly enough but there was a thread of steel in it that brought a ghost of a smile to Sev's lips – clearly this man was a far more formidable opponent than his brother Archer had been. "We both know the truth."

"The truth. Yes. Let's talk about the truth. Does she know?" Sev deftly changed the subject, glancing over to the waitress as he tapped one thick finger against the rim of the empty glass to signal for a refill. His eyes were dark, narrowed as they fixed back on the man across the table. If he were less civilised, he might have growled or pissed on the man's expensive Italian loafers. If they'd been in a ring, he'd work stiff just for the audacity alone. How dare this asshole come into his turf with veiled accusations? The fact that they were true just made it more infuriating. There was no proof. He had been beyond careful.

Were you though?

"Does who know what?" Confusion was written all over his face. Good. The conversation was back in Sev's control.

"Elle. Does she know that you're her father?"

Atticus nearly choked on his drink, setting it down with a shaky hand. A few drops spattered on the table and they both pretended not to notice.

"I'll take that as a no."

"I don't want to go to war with you, Sev. But if that's what you're angling for—"

"Good," he favoured the waitress with a warm smile that didn't reach his eyes as she delivered another pint, immediately reaching out to take a huge swallow. Suddenly his throat ached with the effort of holding his anger at bay when he felt like ranting and raging. "I'm glad you'd prefer not to because there are no winners or losers in war. Just casualties and survivors."

"We're family," Atticus reached for his drink again, his eyes going to the scabbed knuckles wrapped around that pint glass. "So let's work together. I'm trying to look out for you–"

"No thanks," Sev pulled some bills from his wallet and dropped them on the table, standing abruptly. "We don't need your charity. I can look after my family just fine on my own."


450 days.
38,880,000 seconds.
648,000 minutes.
10,800 hours.

December 20, 2022 at PWE's MAGNIFICENCE II – the last time we were on opposite sides of the ring.

And the Internet has been so very vocal about this match, even before I turned my back on the Fortunate Ones. The whole world shouts of BETRAYAL from the rooftops; they call for my head on a pike.

THEY COME WITH TORCHES.

THEY COME IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT.

They want to avenge this transgression, this slight against you. And what have you done, Joe? Did you go back and listen to the things I said? Did you go back and review every little twitch, every little expression on my face every time the cameras were rolling, combing through until you found those breadcrumbs to lead you to the truth?

No. You continued with your head in the sand, chasing glory everywhere under the sun. WGWF. Thunder Pro. Two weeks ago, you gestured to an imaginary belt around your waist – don't think I missed that. I know you, Joe. I know what's most important to you and it isn't loyalty or friendship or any of the things you claim to value. No. What matters most to you is that marquee and the thought of ever giving that up is what keeps you awake at night, pacing the floors and scheming for new ways to push yourself down their throats. No one ever has a chance to miss you, Joe. You're always there.

EVERY SMASH.

EVERY BRAWL.

EVERY WAKING MOMENT.

THE JOE MONTUORI SHOW.

I know you, Joe. I know you're going to laugh this off. Make jokes. Pretend that I didn't cut you deeply and that the wound isn't still leaking, leaving tracks everywhere. Walking wounded. And maybe you've been like that for a while. Maybe that's why your desperation for that spotlight sickens me so much – it smacks too closely to my own desire to outrun the hourglass sands, to make something of this career before the last one falls.

I feel like I've done that.

THE LAST ENTITY WORLD CHAMPION.

THREE BELTS HELD.

NONE LOST.

Who's the true MVP? Who's the one fit to carry Smash's Legacy?

NOT YOU.

NEVER YOU.

Your silence speaks volumes, Joe. And I have answered it in turn because I have moved on. I don't give a shit about the Fortunate Ones. I have happily missed appearances at the last two shows and saved myself the hassle of travel, opting instead to take some time to let my body heal because chasing the fame dragon and burning the candle at both ends have the same outcome – you will end up getting burned. For what is about to come, I offer no apologies. I walked away because I never should have let myself get drawn into your little circlejerk to begin with. I was never an equal. Don't lie. Don't spit in my face with your stammering and sputtering, trying to tell me how you always respected me.

I gave you the rope. I let you braid your own noose with it. And the whole time, you were wildly ignorant. You thought you were cementing yourself as the leader, you thought you were carving out a niche. No, Joe.

IT'S A NUMBERS GAME.

FIVE TO ONE.

ONE IN FIVE.

NO ONE HERE GETS OUT ALIVE.

You're probably confused by now. I've told you what was coming. I've hinted. I've outright proclaimed it and now, looking back, I realise this is another repeat of IIW. I have beaten everyone who matters. Nothing left but ghosts and shadows – this is who I am now. The reaper. The goddamned reckoning has arrived and I know that all of this will fall on deaf ears because I am just another holy roller at a tent revival meeting, preaching doom and damnation, speaking in tongues.

YOU WON'T LISTEN.

YOU WON'T HEED THESE WORDS.

Tell me how you used to respect me, how I've changed. 450 days since the last time I took you to the limit. I have built a reputation since then. I have amassed this enormous winning streak and while I love those little numbers, those orderly little facts, the truth is that you can't fill a bucket with enough of that to quench any sort of thirst.

So what's on the line this time, Joe?

NOT MY CHAMPIONSHIP.

NOT CLOUT.

CERTAINLY NOT SMASH'S LEGACY.

We're playing for keeps this time, Joe. Once upon a time, I considered you a friend. I RESPECTED you. And this isn't a competition. It's no dick-measuring contest like that Rise Against song where I'm asking you to bare your scars so we can bicker about whose are worse. It's a divining rod. We're plumbing the depths here. Looking for something worthwhile beyond the surface. 60 minutes to prove one's worth – sounds good on paper, doesn't it? This match. This place. Here and now, at this moment in our lives. It means something.

Maybe you'll prove me wrong. Maybe there's going to be that twitch, that dip and something downright spectacular's going to happen. Maybe that's wishful thinking on my part, to hold you up to my impossible standards. We're nearly the same age, Joe. So why is it that you come off decades younger? Why is it that I can't see you as anything but a spoiled child in dire need of a little discipline?

Truths will be revealed. Ideas change. People change, Joe. This moment is a definition, not of which one of us is the better wrestler or the better failure or whatever you wanna hang over it before the pendulum swings back around. No. It's about who's the better man.