QUESTIONS & ANSWERS (Chapter 36: Reckoning)

Dirty South Strength & Conditioning (Fayetteville, GA)
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April 9, 2024
(off camera)

Being a creature of habit was going to lead to his ultimate demise – Sev knew that now. Since he’d been moonlighting in the Duffy Wrestling League for the past few months, he’d been coming to this gym. It was the closest match to the one he frequented in Brighton Beach. He’d been here before the sun came up, looking to get in a workout before he had to catch a flight back to NYC. Like usual, he’d posted some trite bullshit on social media to document it. Heaven forbid he forgot to do that and his spotlight dimmed as a result. Too many people were counting on him now and the pressure stacked on his shoulders was getting harder and harder to carry each day, even though he was getting stronger. He hadn’t expected to still be here hours later, sprawled out on the wooden bench in the men’s locker room, spread-eagle on his back.

There was a big gaping hole in his memory. A few hours of missing time and his head hurt so much that he knew even before his phone started blowing up with notifications that something had happened.



They don’t fear you.

He ignored that insidious voice and continued living in the moment, grateful that his lungs were still expanding and his heart was still pumping. A little pain was nothing. And if it was something severe? Well, at least he had on a pair of clean underwear.

This business was supposed to be ours.

“Ours?” He rasped, incredulous as he struggled to sit up only for the room to start spinning again. His stomach lurched. He turned on his side, one palm smacking against the floor to keep him from faceplanting in the mess already there as he coughed up more half-digested breakfast, feeling the stomach acid scorching his already-raw throat.

Ownership was a funny thing to be obsessing over in a moment like this. He should have been thinking about how in the hell he was going to be at 100% come WrestleWars. He should have been scheduling more ominous tweets about “the end” because not only was he staring down the prospect of the end of that feud with Slaughter in DWL, but defending SMASH’s legacy against a foolish child who had chosen the most ill-fitting moniker imaginable in Ragnarök.

Clean underwear. A championship belt you RARELY defend. Three others up on a shelf, collecting dust. A puddle of vomit. Bloodshed. These are the things you–

--wait. There’s blood right now. I can smell it. I can taste it. Is it mine? Am I bleeding? THAT MOTHERFUCKER!

His heart was galloping out of his chest. He felt lightheaded, dizzy, and disoriented. Mescaline and ether high, like an out-of-body experience, and then there was a blinding white light that stabbed through his brain and in the split second it took him to realize that someone had called an ambulance, he damn near went completely feral and lashed out at the poor guy who was just doing his job. The paramedic was hovering now, poking and prodding. Penlight stabbing into the back of his brain – concussion protocol. Even when the light fucked off, his head was still throbbing, the glowing orb burned into the back of his eyelids so that white-hot pain circled his head like a crown of thorns. He could feel motion, the metaphorical boat rocking on those stormy seas and if he hadn’t already gotten sick all over the place, he’d be heaving again. Even now, bile-laden saliva filled his mouth, sour and salty and coppery.

Blood, blood everywhere, and not a drop to drink.

“Hold still, Mr. Yurievich.”

He couldn’t make out those words clearly, watching as the man bent closer until his face was grossly distorted and he couldn’t help the anger that surged up in him. After all the dues he’d paid? After everything he’d done for this business, it was all going to come unraveled because of a goddamned concussion? No. FUCK NO.

You are a piñata. A joke to them now. Nothing more.

“Fuck off,” he muttered and the EMT pulled back, startled by the venomous tone.

I really could not care less. Any subsequent fallout between myself and WGWF over these secondary bookings is the least of my concerns. I need to get out of here. I need to be on that flight home because I have promises to keep.

Promises to keep. A flight to make. BOO HOO.

I'm so fucking tired; all I want to do is sleep.

He knew he couldn’t but the sick lethargy pulled at him, making each movement molasses slow. He felt like he was stuck in mud, like that childhood nightmare of the white horse being swallowed in the Swamps of Sadness. Eyes watering, narrowed and burning as he forced himself to sit up and blink past the pain. The medic started fussing, trying to get him to lay back down but one look at the dangerous scowl on Sev’s face made him step back. He forced himself to his feet, swaying drunkenly until he found his sea legs and the pain vise tightened around his head even more. Squeezing. Squeezing. Fucking relentless. He was hovering above it all again, disconnected as that MACHINE part of him took over, switching everything else off but that endless fuel of rage. It burned white-hot now.

The wannabe doctor grabbed his shoulder and this time the urge went unchecked and he turned, landing a solid punch. Ass over teakettle, and he went down hard, the penlight rolling away only to be crushed underfoot a moment later as Sev lurched towards the doorway.

“Mr. Yurievich!” The voice came from far away; he ignored it, grabbing his gym bag and skirting around the puddle of sickness on the floor.

“I’m fine,” he snarled, his voice a pained rasp as though he’d been shouting for hours. And maybe he had. He couldn’t remember. “Head hurts. Don’t care. It’s hurt before. It’ll hurt again. Wash your hands of me. Giving you permission for that—” he knew it was a jumble of word salad, barely coherent but he couldn’t bring himself to try harder when it was taking everything in him to just keep from keeling over. The medic pulled himself up off the floor, rubbing his jaw but to his credit, there wasn’t anger on his face. No. It was far worse than that.

It was pity.

I refuse to fall down. Refuse to stay here one more second.

This caged feeling had him wanting to explode in every direction. The anger was overwhelming now, fed by pity and THE MONSTER MACHINE was firmly behind the wheel. He shrugged off human contact, extending a middle finger and waving it in the man’s face because words had completely gone out the window now. He found the sunglasses in the pocket of his bag. Shoved them on his face and the guy was still following him as he stumbled towards the door, gibbering and jabbering about how the cops were waiting to take a statement on the assault and how Sev needed to go to the hospital and be checked out properly.

I’m good. No harm, no foul. Just more self-inflicted bullshit.

The words stayed locked behind clenched teeth. He made it outside into the cool air and it cleared his head just enough for his blurred vision to clear. He saw blood on the sidewalk, knew that was where he had fallen in the precious seconds before dawn had broken and couldn’t help the shiver of foreshadowing that crawled down his spine. Grim certainty was there as he shuffled off towards the rental car that sat all by itself near the back of the lot. The sun was too hot. Too bright. As if that eclipse yesterday had opened up some portal to Hell and was only waiting for him to make good on his promise to drag yet another unwilling soul into its depths. He knew, even without the throbbing of that likely concussion and that disconnected feeling that went with it that the winds of change were blowing. They had been for the last six months. 

Borrowed time has run out. Can’t buy more. Their tender isn’t valid. Fame? Fortune? Golden baubles and winning streaks? None of that matters anymore. This has gone too far. It's personal now. I can't stop. Not now. I'm too far gone. One foot's already in the grave. The other's on a landmine. I can't carry this LEGACY much longer. I'm not strong enough. Maybe I never was. I'm sorry Smash. I can't-

--NONE OF YOUR PETTY SHIT MATTERS TO THE ABYSS - TO ME. STOP YOUR BELLYACHING. LET ME DO THIS. YOU KNOW YOU NEED ME.

Yes. I do.



The video begins with a close-up shot of ENIGMA's face. His face is clean, no traces of war paint evident and his expression is blank, his eyes as black and impenetrable as the night around him. There's a crackling fire in front of him and the flames create shadows that are actually quite ominous, adding almost demonic dimensions to his features. A sigh escapes his lips before he slowly shakes his head and begins speaking in measured tones.

"Nothing bothers ME more than hubris, than a cocky little shit who puts in the bare minimum of work and thinks just because he fell backwards into an opportunity to challenge for MY championship, that the hard work is done. I am sure this comes as no surprise to anyone who has followed my career for the last year. We are coming up on the anniversary of the moment where it all changed, the moment my LEGACY was firmly cemented on this miserable industry, the moment my THIRD championship landed around my waist. Ah, but the critics were merciless. They called it a gimme. Max Stone insinuated that it was created for me, a gift to placate my massive ego and keep me from growing disgusted and dissatisfied with my status in the..."

He trails off, shaking his head. 

"You know what? The name of that faction eludes me - I suppose it doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things, does it? No. As much as you want to weave this tale of suffering and tribulation, to paint yourself as the scrappy little underdog who paid his dues and has been kicked to the curb time and time again, we both know that's a bit of a reach. You've banked on silence as misdirection, failing to even ACKNOWLEDGE my public address on the go-home edition of SMASH. You failed to utter more than a peep since your fragile little ego ran into the brick wall known as SYN. I am sure this little game of silence has worked with others, has painted this picture of a man so dedicated to his craft that he doesn't have time to share his thoughts. There are no ripples in my pond, Ragnarök. You are no MONSTER. You are no THREAT. Anything you say now is just an afterthought on the heels of months of petulant silence. And the more you try and cram into these twilight moments before your march to the gallows, the more you pique my anger. I already expressed my frustration weeks ago at the repeat of my time in IIW, where every last supposed 'challenger' was nothing more than a name on paper, a cardboard cutout that toppled in the slightest breeze. Is that what you are then? Another ghost? Go on. Tell me how ready you are. Tell me how you DESERVE this moment over anyone else. Tell me now as the last few grains of sand slide down towards inevitability - tell me that I'm wrong. Tell me that I misread the signs or that something was lost in translation. My eyes are wide open. The more you say, the more I want to BURN. The more frustrated I get until all my clever thoughts run dry. And who needs clever, really?"

He pauses, lifting his hand up to scratch his cheek.

"Never fails, though. You scratch one of those loud-mouthed shits, those abrasive so-called winners who like to tell you all about how much time they put in pulling themselves up by the bootstraps, clawing their way to the top, and nine times out of ten you'll find a scared little kid who had everything handed to him on a silver platter and just let all the fame get to his head. A tragedy, really. I can look back on your previous tenure here in WGWF and find nothing remarkable. I can scour the ends of the internet looking for a highlight reel worthy of MY LEGACY and come up dry. I'm sick and tired of seeing these snot-nosed shits who expect to be overnight sensations give up after a few weeks of tough breaks. Go home. Lick the wounds. Reinvent themselves with a name change, come back and do it all over again. Oh, but I must be wrong. Little Rags won this contendership after all. Can't be fate or chance or being in the right place at the right time when there was a void anyone could have filled. For fuck's sake, I faced some rookie who had never even stepped foot in the WGWF ring before that so you are CLEARLY special. The chosen one. Another would-be hero, ready to slay THE MONSTER MACHINE."

The derision in his tone is thick and acidic. 

"I gave you a chance, Rags. I wanted to like you. I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt when you stumbled and fell. My high hopes weren't dashed there. No. It was what you did after that. I saw the truth. I can hear it ringing in that SILENCE that speaks volumes and the moment you dared to try and draw a parallel was the moment you signed your own death warrant. You and I... we are nothing alike. All it takes is one moment to look a guy in the eyes and you can tell the difference between empty words and legit sincerity. There's no respect for a champion a million times better than you. There is no RESPECT for a championship that has been held in this company by only one man, a torch that was passed from one who begrudgingly forced me to give him flowers. This is not about Chris Page, though. This is not about Jonathan Barrows or the SMASH brand. No. It's about honesty. It's about INTEGRITY. It's about a track record that has been proven time and time again. I have not been pinned in a WGWF ring. I was never pinned in IIW, either. And the only one who ever managed to get a title away from me managed to do so by kicking me in the dick when the official had their back turned - shameful and disgusting. You haven't earned the right to face me, Little Rags. You haven't earned the right to lick my boots, let alone come within a stone's throw of MY LEGACY." 

He shakes his head. 

"You want to talk about love? About commitment? About longevity and legacies and everything that I bring to the table? Yes. Let's do that. See, love is not just a convenient word to me. It isn't some cheap little sentiment. To me, it's a promise. It's a blood oath, a dangerous pact forged not in the heart but in the head, fueled by passion. Without passion, without the love or your precious loathing for an honest guy like me, all you've got left is APATHY. Your promises of violence, of wresting this championship from my aging hands hold no power when they're tossed out with such a lack of conviction.

That's why I've been hammering at you for weeks, trying to provoke something beyond that knee-jerk twitch. This, my friend, this is not your last hurrah. This is not your SWAN SONG moment. This is a death rattle and you are far too delusional to even see the inevitability rushing at you with the force of a speeding locomotive. And I know that you will be scrambling through this missive, trying to find the twitch... trying to seek out that loose thread so you can pull it and unravel it all. As if that would be enough to send my SUPREMACY in WGWF crashing down. You think this championship is a crutch? Who do you take me for? Peter fucking Vaughn? No. I may be less than 100% right now, thanks to my own poor choices of taking on other commitments outside of WGWF, but that doesn't make me weak. That doesn't make me vulnerable to a miserable and lazy little shitstain who thinks he can march right in, spot that vein of weakness and inject that poison that will fell the BEAST. Greater men have tried. You know what the outcome was yet you still think this is your time to shine? How delusional are you? How many times have you been dropped on your head?

I applaud your confidence. I have been preaching ARMAGEDDON for weeks now. I have been talking about death. About the end of everything. These are not idle threats yet you have the audacity to waltz in here after weeks of the silent treatment, touting the notion of this perfect little Cinderella storybook moment and expect me not to laugh right in your face? I get it, kid. I do. You're so keen to swallow that lie because the golden ticket in your hand makes you believe. Sprinkle a little fairy dust. Find a happy thought. You can truly FLY. For fuck's sake. Get your head out of the clouds. OPEN UP YOUR EYES.

Let's be honest now. Let's read the thoughts between the lines so I can circle all the different ways you tried to imply I'm undeserving, unworthy – un-fucking-believable – of this LEGACY, of this PROMISE I made to a man just hours before he passed on. You think you can get under my skin. You think you can do something that so many others have tried and failed at. Sure. Why not? You believe in that magical moment, in your miracle of invincibility even though we're playing..."

He points his fingers at his temple and mimes pulling the trigger of a gun.

"Russian roulette. So go on, then. Pull the trigger. Find out what's waiting for you there in that dark chamber, down there in the ABYSS. You've got the heart and you like to fly very, very close to the flames so you're going to suck it up and get in the ring with me and you can't get much closer to the end than that. Everyone knows the story of the boy who cried wolf. Everyone knows the story of Icarus. Soon they'll tell yours in the same hushed, cautionary tones. They'll talk about how you could have done something with this pathetic career of yours. Oh yes, poor Little Rags could have had it all. They'll talk about how it was inevitable to come crashing down – you play with fire too many times and you'll get burned. And if you fuck with THE MONSTER MACHINE too many times, you're gonna get your arm broken and your fingers broken and maybe even your head broken. Crack it open... let some of that hot air... some of that HUBRIS leak out. See, there's a big difference between us, Rags. One huge difference."

His gaze drops to the championship belt resting in his lap, a predatory snarl crossing his lips and his next words are uttered in a menacing rasp that is far more terrifying than if he were shouting at the top of his lungs.

"DO YOU SEE NOW?

I AM THE END.

OF YOU.

OF EVERYTHING YOU'VE EVER LOVED.

I AM YOUR GODDAMNED RECKONING."