QUESTIONS & ANSWERS (Chapter 37: Green Machine)

Village Motel (Ellenville, NY)
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May 14, 2024
(off camera)

The sun wasn't up yet when Sev Yurievich awoke in a cold sweat, his tongue coated in a thick layer of fuzz that made his mouth feel drier than the Sahara. There was a jaundiced glow coming from the partly open bathroom door, enough that he could see the tiny room was furnished with nothing but a narrow bed and a battered dresser with a cracked mirror behind it and an old TV set that looked like it had survived the Reagan administration. He wasn't in bed and maybe that was a blessing in and of itself because it looked like someone had probably died in it. No. He was sandwiched between the foot of the bed and the wall, right in front of the tepid stream of air coming from the air conditioner. The compressor kicked on, sounding like a plane taking flight and he shuddered, chilled to the bone. He was completely naked, and every inch of his body hurt. Lights from a car washed across the wall, reflecting across the mirror to splash over his face. With a pitiful moan, he shielded his eyes in the crook of one shaking arm.

At that moment, he had absolutely no idea where he was – his mind was blank. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a little thought niggled, they're probably worried about you. The thought, though, was formless. Directionless. The 'they' in question was nothing more than an amorphous blob lost in the haze of the vodka he could smell coming from his own pores. His throat burned. His back and stomach ached and he knew without looking that the bathroom probably held the evidence of the purge that came after such a spectacular binge. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been blackout drunk like this, if ever.

He vaguely remembered holding his daughter, flickering candles on a cake. The faces of friends and family gathered around to sing happy birthday. After that was nothing but a blur. His eyes were open wide, staring in horror as he tried to piece together the events of the last twelve hours.

Scuttling back, he huddled into the deepest shadows in the corner, feeling the pain wrapping around his head, squeezing down like a vise. His head bent, forehead touching his knees; his breathing deep and regular as he probed his memory carefully, like a one-legged man attempting to tiptoe through a minefield. Looming black shapes and distorted sounds came in a flash, accompanied by the ghostly memory of pain that wasn't physical. He growled against the image of SYNN holding up the Smash Championship, unable to recall any further mechanics that had led to that outcome. A shudder of revulsion crawled down his spine as he saw that warped image of her seductively licking the hardware. The more he tried to remember, the more his headache grew in intensity, making him whimper like a wounded animal.

Through it all, the voice in his head was silent for the first time in months, that sibilant whisper and the hot tendril of rage gone. Maybe it had never been there. Maybe the last year had been a figment, a fever dream and nothing more – that thought sent him scrambling, finding his clothes in a hastily-discarded puddle near the door. His phone was there in the pocket, silenced as usual. Seventeen missed calls. He didn't check the numbers. Didn't care.

He needed to see the date because the present and the past were overlapping, twisting in his mind as though they sought to create a new set of memories that served him better.

May 14.

The day after Mother's Day. Lenore's birthday.

YOUR DAUGHTER. YOUR WIFE.

A moment later he was swiping through menus with shaking hands, panic constricting his chest when he noticed the skinned knuckles. "Please answer… please…" his voice was rough and raw, catching on a near sob. He didn't even understand this motivation, just knew that he had to call her to make sure something horrible hadn't happened again. He had to make sure his family was still safe.

"This is Elle. Sorry I missed your call-"

A bellow shattered the silence, as the fear boiled over into anger. He stabbed the button and let his phone fall to the floor before he turned and smashed his torn fist into the wall beside the door. His head began to ache as he stared at the bloody smears on the plaster, a dull ache that had come in stealth, like a thief in the night. His back hit the wall as he slid down it holding his temple, his teeth clenched down to the point of nearly breaking. His mouth worked silently for a moment, chewing on half formed thoughts. Black shapes filled his head, looming large like aliens. He shuddered; throat closing over a scream and forcing it back down. His jaw clicked shut, teeth snapping together. Harsh dragged-in breath tore at his throat, bringing with it the smell of fear-sweat. His own stink.

Gone.

The word echoed in his head and he looked down at his left hand, seeing the indentation where his wedding ring usually was and the fact that it was missing was far worse than any of the other half-formed fragments that flashed through his mind.

"No." He trembled and twitched, muttering nonsense to himself as he cowered on that hotel room floor, naked as the day he was born. The anger spilled over, consuming everything, mingling with the pain. The darkness in his mind claimed him then, a year of manipulating and moulding him into something frightful finally at its end. There was no more Sev. No more gentle giant. He was nothing more than a MACHINE, an AUTOMATON now, this powerful force running on nothing but anger. It was a knee-jerk instinct, that fight-or-flight response coded right into his reptile brain.

The phone on the floor lit up, drawing his attention. That damned bootleg Ramones crest flashed on the screen – LEX COLLINS. He stabbed the button and put it on speaker. "What?" His voice cracked and splintered on that single word.

A sigh came through the speaker, followed by a single word that held a thousand emotions. "Hey." It felt like an apology. An olive branch. Concern. Exhaustion.

"What do you want?" He tried to temper his own emotions but the anger was there, a cold thread of steel running through that simple question.

"Elle's freakin' out. She was callin' the hospitals, convinced you ran off the road-"

"Shut up." He lashed out, voice as sharp as a whip crack as an image crashed through that brain fog. His fist, connecting square with that smart mouth of the guy on the other end of the phone.

"Listen, Sev… I ain't pissed, alright? I know you got a lot of shit on your plate an' it was just…" Collins paused, pulling in a deep breath. "Tell me where you are, alright? I'll come get you."

Somehow he knew this was the beginning of the end. The other shoe was falling, getting faster and he was nothing more than a moth, flying too close to the flame, destined to crash and burn to a blackened husk. He took a shallow breath of his own, making the huge effort to speak in a civil tone of voice. He came close, but the cadence was slightly skewed. "I don't know where the fuck I am."

Sirens screamed in the distance, a thousand voices raised in protest of their eternal misery, echoing the pained anger in his eyes as he met them in the mirror. His hand moved up his cheek, probing the tender spots on his cheekbone. He saw the blood caked around his knuckles better now than his eyes had fully adjusted to the gloom, curving around his wrist to darken the vein tattoos like some tribal war paint. Something had happened, all right. A barely repressed chuckle passed his lips as he lowered his hand, flexing his fingers. Pain screamed through his head, making him shout hoarsely before ending the call and dropping the phone. He rocked forward, head in his hands, fingers pushing against his skin as though to shove his brains back through his skull.

He let out a low moan of anguish, remembering everything now. Every. Last. Thing.

His phone lit with a notification. The video he'd recorded had been uploaded and was available to view now. What video?



The room is dark, full of shadows. Somewhere in the distance, water is dripping. Steady. Rhythmic like a metronome keeping time. ENIGMA sits with his back against a wall. Knees up to his chest. He's got blood on his hands. Blood on his chest. Who knows what he's been doing. Wait, is he even wearing any clothes? The shadows make it hard to tell.

The screen's glow flickers across his tangled figure as he takes a few slow and measured breaths.

"The first thing they teach you in this business is how to fall. Take the lumps. Take the bumps. Ride the waves and roll through the punches and eventually your brain will recognize those patterns – it becomes instinctive. Automatic as breathing. Ah, yes. BREATHING. And the first thing they teach you when you enter therapy is breathing exercises. Slow easy breaths. Count them. Look around the room and find things to ground yourself. Something old. Something new. Something borrowed. SOMETHING RED.

I need this now – to quiet my mind. I have always been able to throw that switch. To turn off the machine when necessary. So I breathe. In and out. Fill my lungs. Visualise my blood pumping through my veins and it calms me. I need that right now, because I can hear the whispers from the treeline, the forces gathering in the woods. They wish to overthrow me. They wish to drive a stake through my heart, to lop off my head and parade through the square with that ticker-tape hero's welcome. Wouldn't it be nice, to be the one lauded for ending my career, for finally putting this rusty and decrepit, antiquated and outdated MACHINE out of its misery. I see the sparks of the sharpening knives. Am I paranoid? Do I worry about inevitabilities?

No. I am here in the aftermath. I am breathing and I am showing time that I can slow through sheer force of my will. These are the moments we never get back. These are the ones that come back to haunt in those final hours – so much time wasted. Yet the fools continue to gather, casting their lots on my imminent demise.

Can't sleep. Aching back, aching head. Even though I've been absent from the WGWF ring, I am still busy and the grind of the road is getting to me. I'm pushing too hard, like always. I was screwed over by a blind referee (or maybe it was my own pathetic ego). Two opportunities elsewhere for a championship and I fell flat on my face. Boo hoo. Listen to me whine. Oh, there's a monster being unleashed in your midst. I know Barrows wanted to create chaos, putting me in charge of this choice. I know he wanted to test the rest of the roster, to see if anyone wanted to prove me wrong. I said this was becoming just like IIW before the end – a parade of cardboard cutouts and ghosts. Tumbleweeds and silence in the face of every declaration made, every promise that became prophecy. As if shouting into the void and hearing nothing back but my own echoes are in any way entertaining?

I am here because of that promise I made to Smash, mere hours before he passed. I told him I would go where he went, and would have his back. Faith reciprocated. A true friendship.

But where do we draw the line?"

He sighs, reaching off screen for something. When his hand returns, it's clutching a little strip of paper. It's one of those reels from a photobooth and he looks down at it in silence, one bloody finger tracing the lines. The first photo is serious. Him and his wife staring forward into the camera. The second she's got her head turned, looking up at him and he's grinning like a fool. In the third she's front and centre, his arms wrapped around her and a very pregnant belly on display. In the last one, they're being silly. She has her tongue out. He's making a goofy face with crossed eyes and she's got bunny ears over his head. This is the reality of the man behind the war paint. This is the true face of Sev Yurievich. All smiles.

The man sitting here now bears no resemblance to him, especially not with the haggard features and hollow eyes. His words are carefully enunciated, as if he is either drunk or taking great pains to make sure he's understood.

"I understand the concept of family. Of loyalty. I understand loss. I understand sacrifice. With the bright lights and the frenzied crowd, I can lose myself in the moment – I don't worry about this. It's automatic. What I worry about now is the blurring of that line. What I worry about is how every time that switch is thrown it takes a little longer for the shutdown sequence to start and I suppose I should be honest and tell you the truth. The vultures have been circling for two years now. They're patient. They're a constant and I feel both honoured and humbled by their attention. They want to pick my bones, suck the oche of my experiences from my marrow. I don't fear that. I faced my mortality years ago. I know I exist solely now in moments of borrowed time. The only thing that bothers me… the only thing that ignites my anger is this malfunction of mine. Tonight, the switch wouldn't move and now I am stuck in this godforsaken limbo, second-guessing my capacity to control these animal urges. The prospect of losing makes me so fucking angry.

Not the championship. It's been rendered meaningless now. Most days, I forget it even exists and I'm sure that bothers you on a level you'll loudly tell me all about. I don't care. You could pin me. You could take that championship and declare yourself the KING of SMASH. You'll tell the world the monster was slain – defanged destroyer gone soft from domestication. He was better when he was caged, when he was chained and only loosed on those hapless victims before being thrown back in the dark to starve and exist on scraps. A nice word here. A pat on the head there. An extra helping of scraps for a job well done. I existed that way for more than twenty years.

GOOD BOY. GOOD JOB.

I was not allowed ambition. Aspirations. Foresight and hindsight were beaten from me. I was stripped of all but the moment, lashing out and tearing apart whomever was put in my path in the moment. And it suited me. It worked for me. I kept doing that long after the chains were broken because old habits are hard to break. Everything was automated.

MECHANICAL.

I never wanted this championship. That's the truth.

When I LOSE, it will not be because a scrap of leather and spray-painted tin leaves my hands. No. It will be far more profound than that. It will EVISCERATE me. Leave me for dead. I will be an empty husk then, nothing but chaff for the wind. I will blow away and the next generation will pollute this business in my absence.

It's bullshit, between you and me. Barrows wanted to put this on me. My choice. My undoing at my own hands. And I will choose when I am good and ready to. When I have dealt with this other problem of mine.

Otherwise, when the dust settles, when all the shit's done splattering around from the impact with the fan, I will have nothing left. Oh, I'll still be here, still living, and breathing, and wringing the life from every stolen moment but I will be doing it from that prison cell of loneliness once again. Every moment I'll be thinking about her: the shape of her face, her warm smile that lit up rooms when she used to look at me, her hair that was always a mess, and the way her nose crinkled when she laughed. Stripped bare, those will be the only things I have left. Just these little snapshots pinned to that barren wall in the empty room I will retreat to inside myself. Do you understand me? Do you understand what I'm saying?

NONE. OF. THIS. SHIT. MATTERS."

Yurievich Residence (Rock Hill, NY)
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May 13, 2024
(off camera)

The cake was rich, moist and delicious and he relished the taste as he licked the last of the frosting from the fork. Across the room, he watched his wife opening gifts while their daughter dozed in the arms of her grandfather. He stood against the wall, a silent observer until he felt a bump against his arm and looked down to see his best friend Sam there. She favoured him with a smile, gently patting his arm.

"You've done good."

His smile turned rueful as he chuckled. "In what way?"

"Beautiful family. Nice house. You're at a great place in your career — reminds me. I should thank you. For bringing me to Duffy."

He shrugged, "you said you wanted to get back into the business. Small potatoes is a good place to start."

She laughed. "You don't act like it's 'small potatoes'."

"He never has," Lex Collins chimed in from his other side. "Dude doesn't have a lower gear. It's full throttle or nothin'."

All three shared a laugh at that. He knew they meant well, that they weren't really nitpicking but he felt a flush of defensive anger that he had to bite back. "They wanted me to be in Ohio today. Not booked. Just an appearance. Sign more things. Pose with fans. Let them bleed me a little more. So sick of it all."

"You've had the strap since October. Who you got left to fight there anyways?"

Sev rolled his eyes at Lex's question. "Nobody worthwhile. Cable wants another go. Montuori wants me to defy the boss, fuck up the main event and choose him — I won't. I have enough respect to honour that."

"You guys think that DWL will do any more mixed tag matches?" As if she could feel the heat of his anger, Sam shifted the subject. "I mean, with all the drama in the women's division, I just want to have a fun match that isn't embroiled in politics."

"I'd love to tag agai-" Sev began, only to be cut off by Collins.

"If we're gonna tag for real, we need a catchy name."

He turned abruptly and walked away, storming into the kitchen. Now he understood why Sam hadn't asked him for more training and sparring sessions. She'd found someone better. Someone younger and far more decorated and admired than he'd ever be. It hurt more than he wanted to admit because it was just more evidence of the turning tides. He set the dirty plate in the sink, the fork rattling against the porcelain.

"Hey." Collins stood behind him, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, making the old hardwood creak. "I shoulda told you. She came to me — we knew each other before. In Vegas. It's a whole thing… she prob'ly never told you any of that stuff. It was a rough time for her. Don't want you to think I'm overstepping—"

Sev didn't think about it. Didn't swallow back that surge of anger. Instead he turned and slugged Lex Collins right in the mouth as hard as he could. He felt the impact, teeth ripping his knuckles up and then the seasoned fighter rocked with the impact and swung back, slamming that dangerous right hook into his cheek. If he'd been square, it probably would've knocked him senseless. It hurt. The anger swelled and he swung again only for it to miss completely. Collins licked the blood from his split lip, his eyes dead black as they narrowed on Sev even as he stayed in that safe space out of arm's reach. He glanced back over his shoulder, reminding his host about the party going on just a few feet away.

"Not here. Not today." The way he said it made it clear that this wasn't over.

"Fuck you," Sev spat the words, grabbing the full bottle of vodka off the kitchen island. He turned without another word and stormed out the sliding door onto the deck. A moment later he was behind the wheel, peeling away from the party that he'd planned, hoping to leave that anger and betrayal behind.

It didn't work. His cheek was throbbing. The monster was howling, screaming for more violence. His knuckles were bleeding. He cracked the seal on the bottle, bringing that astringent oblivion to his lips.

FUCK THEM ALL. TRAITORS, THE LOT OF THEM. WE DON'T NEED THEM. WE HAVE ALL WE NEED RIGHT HERE.



"Something in me does nothing but count the days, marking them on some invisible cinderblock wall in this prison cell. Biding my time, with that number on my head. See, you've all got it wrong. It's not about wins for me. It's not about the glory or this incessant streak that everything thinks matters so much to me. I can't even tell you how many people I've beaten in the last year and a half. Those aren't my priorities. They never were. That shit just happens, and I roll with it. I'm counting down to the inevitable end. The dark days of this business are coming. And you have a choice now, if you're going to be party to that ruin. Are you going to follow in your cousin's footsteps? Pollute everything you touch until not a single person will buy a ticket or watch this godforsaken product ever again?"

It's not a dark room this time. It's outside. Among the trees. Sunglasses covering his eyes and when he speaks, he sounds rushed, as if he needs to get this out before something happens.

"Riddle me this, Rocco: what would you do if there were no consequences and no loyalties? No chaos theory ripples, no law to crack that ruler across your knuckles. If the future direction of WGWF lay on a silver platter and YOU could dictate the future. What would you do? Would you still be loyal to your cousin? Would you tolerate The Fortunate Ones? Or would you put that fuck out of his misery? Hell, would you put that same gun to my head afterwards and pull the trigger?

How about if I asked nicely? Would you do it then?

Hit me. Hate me. Tell me you want to BREAK ME.

That's the ONLY way this will end well. Do you understand what I'm saying?

Do you see the writing on the wall?

Open your eyes, Rocco. This is the moment you have always wanted. A time to outshine. Outlast. Surpass the mediocre accomplishments of the rest of the Montuori clan. It's all on you. This immense burden. Are you strong enough to snatch this LEGACY?

COME FOR BLOOD. PREPARE TO TEST YOUR LIMITS.

YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO KILL ME.

KILL. ME."