Post by Rated R on Dec 18, 2016 14:29:50 GMT -5
It won’t happen again. It won’t happen again. It won’t happen again. It won’t happen again. It won’t happen again.
It happened again. Despite everything I said, despite everything I did, that c*nt just stole it right out from under me. I bet he thought he was pretty smart, rolling me up like that, but where’d it get him by the end of the night? Sure, he’s still the WFWF World Champion, a title that should be around my waist, but it wasn’t me laid out, bloodied and looking like he’d just been plowed by a train of butch inmates at the local prison. Think about the upside Drakz, you finally found a look that works for you, suits you mate, really.
But I’m not blaming anyone else, not anymore. I took my eye off the ball. No excuses, I should have seen it coming because it’s the same thing I was going to do to him. Am I pissed he got in there first? Of course, but that’s what happened and there’s no point trying to twist it. No. No more excuses, no more distractions. That’s been the problem for too damn long now. Time to take responsibility for it all. Time to own up to my own shortcomings.
My phone rings for the fifth time in as many minutes,”Demons” blaring out across the room. The receptionist shoots me a disapproving glare. F*ck her, literally if I was in a better mood. Anyway, if she was an internationally renowned star like me I’m sure she’d make her theme her ringtone too. I snatch the phone up and check the latest voicemail. Not sure why, no real surprise who it’s from.
Elinor Nix: Trace, where the hell are you? I can’t keep them waiting much longer. This was meant to be the big f*cking moment and you’re f*cking it all up! Call me! Now!
But I don’t call her, and I won’t, not until this is done and dusted. I got too damn distracted, that’s the problem. Been the problem all along truth be told. Got too caught up with power plays and politics. Too caught up in playing the bossman to realise it was screwing me over where it really matters. Took being done over by that c*nt Drakz in the biggest moment of my life before I could figure it out.
Trace Demon: How long’s he gonna be?
Receptionist: He’ll be with you when he’s with you Mr. Demon.
Damn, and I thought Nixxy was a b*tch of a PA. I need to get this girl on the payroll. Is this what it feels like for all those saps I leave waiting ten minutes just for the fun of it? Being on the opposite end of a power play sucks.
There’s the phone again. Six calls now. Would have told her what I was doing but she’d have tried talking me out of it, probably would have succeeded too. Used my own ego against me. Doesn’t take much, end of the day. Bit of sweet talking, bit of rubbing up, metaphorically or otherwise. I’m not too proud to say my ego rules me. Fact is I can back it all up when it comes down to it. Dangerous mix, the desire to want it all, the skills to take it. Well, dangerous for everyone else.
Seventh missed call. Time to turn the thing off. Not even worth the hassle just to annoy this b*tch of a receptionist. Two seconds later, as if by magic, the phone at her desk rings. She glances at me while she speaks in a hushed whisper, probably talking about how incredibly handsome I am. Can’t think of anything else she’d be saying.
Receptionist: He’ll see you now.
Finally. Guys been trying to chase me up for months now and I finally decide to meet with him and he keeps me waiting for ten minutes. The nerve.
Trace Demon: How about after this me and you get out of here and go do something that’d make your mother weep?
She stares at me for a moment, clearly having never heard such an impressively confident line.
Receptionist: Me and you? Do I look like a prostitute?
Trace Demon: Well, not a classy one at least.
And with that I saunter on into the office, casually ducking underneath the stapler flying at my head as I go.
Today, it ends. Today, Trace Demon crumbles, and I rebuild better than before. Today is the day I become more dangerous than ever, so I have to ask you…
Are you ready?
< *** >
Trace Demon Presents
Epilogue / Prologue
Phoenix
BLD
December 14th 2016; 8:21am
Otherwise Known as Three Days Ago
If I were a cliche I’d be drunk by now. Unfortunately I’m a far better man than you, which means my sobriety isn’t under threat. However I am struggling to enjoy my pancakes, which is far, far worse.
It’s been nearly two weeks since Superbrawl and I’ve settled into a sort of numbness. A steady rhythm of not giving a s**t about anything and everything. That has, understandably, not gone down too well with my regular breakfast guest.
Elinor Nix: Are you listening to a word I’ve said?
Trace Demon: Honest answer?
Elinor Nix: F*ck’s sake Trace, you’ve got to be on the ball right now. Enough moping.
Trace Demon: Trace Demon does not mope. And if he did it’d be done with class, dignity and the kind of pout that’d make Jennifer Lawrence wet on sight.
Elinor Nix: While I’m grateful to see that you’ve still got enough in you to make a crude joke about America’s latest sweetheart, I need you focused on this, not on imagining what’d it be like to sleep with the blue girl from X-Men.
Trace Demon: Wait, sleep with Jennifer Lawrence, or with the actual Mystique? And what if it’s the latter pretending to be the former? I mean that’s just opening a whole can of worms right there.
Elinor Nix: Trace! Focus!
What is it that’s gotten Nixxy’s lacy panties all up in a punch? Well, it’s simple. In three days I step into a boardroom full of the WFWF’s most important and prominent sponsors. Simple, run of the mill meeting. Except it’s not, because Lila Sleater’s planning on trying to oust me, as leaked by her PA who as it turns out has a bit of a weakness for strong, dominant woman. Go figure. Thing is she’s not the only one who’s been planning a power play, and when it comes down to it nobody plays rougher than yours truly.
Except, all of that was before Superbrawl, because that c*nt stole my title and then that other c*nt stole my chance for retribution. Now I’m stuck in a numb, overwhelming state of nothing matters.
Trace Demon: Look, I get it, it’s important. Complete control of the company and all that, but it’s all under control, right? Has been for months. I’ve f*cked daughters, blackmailed fathers, organised that weird donkey show for that guy at the burger joint-
That was linked to this, right?
Trace Demon: We’ve done everything we need to do but walk in there and swing our giant d*cks about.
I take another bite of what should be a delightful breakfast pancake. Instead it tastes dull and lifeless. Like Yukio’s career. Oh woe is me.
Elinor Nix: While that’s a lovely visual and yes, we do have everything lined up and in order, that doesn’t change the fact that unless you are there, the real you, then it all falls apart.
Trace Demon: Well I’m not sending a clone, am I? Even though I’m sure at one point I definitely did have one.
Though that might have been the drugs. Really should sort out exactly what in my lengthy backstory is real one of these days.
Elinor Nix: I don’t mean that you idiot. I mean the real you. Trace Demon, master manipulator. The guy who made that Canucks fan literally piss himself-
Fat lot of good that did us. Losing to the Canucks, god, as if I didn’t think I could feel any more low.
Elinor Nix: What’s not going to work is if this mopey, depressed little emo girl walks in there like she’s just found out that cutting doesn’t make her look cool.
Trace Demon: Now you’re just taking it too far.
Elinor Nix: Am I? Because I remember the Trace Demon who’d have cut me down in my tracks if I’d have said that a few weeks back. So what, you lost, get the f*ck over it. You’ve lost before, you’ll lose again, it’s how the world works. But at the end of the day it doesn’t matter how many times you get knocked down-
Trace Demon: Oh god, this is one of those “it’s how many times you get back up against” speeches isn’t it?
Elinor Nix: No, it’s one of those “if you don’t get up and start acting like a damn man then I’m just going to cut your balls off and be done with the whole thing” speeches!
She’s hot when she’s angry, and usually I’d take her into the toilets and show her my balls firsthand, but I’m not even sporting a half-chub right now. What the f*ck is wrong with me?
Trace Demon: Well if you’re gonna do it then make it quick, and make sure I bleed out. I don’t want any of this eunuch rubbish, I ain’t got the bald head and robe-wearing physique to pull it off.
She’s trying to work out whether to hit me or not, and in the end she just kind of deflates, like she knows she’s fighting a losing battle and can’t figure out another way to attack. Just roll me up and steal the win Nix, seems to work for everyone else.
Elinor Nix: Three days Trace. That’s how long you’ve got to get your head out of your ass and realise that there is more at stake here than a belt wrapped around your waist. If you don’t do this now then you won’t get another shot at it, you’ll be done, nothing more than a pretty face for the posters. Lila Sleater will take control of your company and you won’t be able to do a damn thing about it. Is that what you want?
I consider it. I really do. And I drag out the only words my shrivelled little brain will let me.
Trace Demon: Who the f*ck knows anymore.
Elinor shakes her head and rises. Can’t even sit at the same table as me anymore. More fool her, she’s still got a fresh batch of pancakes coming and now they’re all going down my throat. Not that they’ll fill the hole inside. God, even I thought that sounded too emo.
Elinor Nix: Well figure it out Trace. It’s now or never. Decide what it is you want because if you don’t take it now you never will.
And with that she’s gone, storming out with such style I’d swear she’s been watching tapes of me. And I’m left alone, with a table full of pancakes and absolutely no idea what I’m meant too do next.
It’s good to be the king, right?
< *** >
House of Hell Training School
December 15th 2016; 12:44am
Otherwise Known as Two Days Ago
The place is closed for the day. Thank god, otherwise I’d run the risk of running into McGurk. Which one? Who the f*ck cares, they’re all as bad as each other at this moment. Wait, he does still work here, right? I should pay more attention to the places I’m pumping money into.
Doesn’t matter though, I’m not here to talk about business. Not here to talk at all, at least not to a McGurk. No, I’ve got more important things on my mind right now. Something Elinor said struck a chord. “Decide on what you want.” What is it I want, really? Past few years I’ve been so focused on money and power that I don’t even remember what I started doing it all for. Used to be I’d run a mile before I’d take a job with any responsibility other than for my own hide. But now here I am running wrestling schools, owning night clubs, running less-than-legal operations just to make a buck.
I own the damn WFWF. What do I care about running a wrestling promotion?
I look up to my office, remembering all the times I looked down at the people training here. What was I looking at? People, or money? Was there really any difference? Nah, that’s not the place I’m here for.
This is what I’m here for. I climb inside the main training ring, remembering when me and Wayne set it up. Only a few years back now but it feels like a lifetime. Did I pour my blood and sweat into this place for the profit? Is that what it was for? I wish I knew.
Looking around at the facility I barely recognise it anymore. Wayne’s been the driving force behind it ever since that whole beating up his daughter for the World title thing. That kind of thing sours a friendship apparently. We put it behind us, as much as we could, but let’s just say I’m not about to be invited around for Christmas dinner any time soon. This was meant to be a nest egg for the future, a legacy for once all my poor life decisions catch up to me, wasn’t it?
I don’t know anymore.
I lie back in the ring, looking up at the lights, the one position no wrestler wants to find themselves in. But that’s where I was at Superbrawl, wasn’t it, looking up at steel and lights as the official counted three. Before I know it my eyes have drifted shut.
The Demon: Well you look like sh*t.
They snap up immediately. I know that voice, I know it like the back of my hand, and sure enough when I sit up he’s there, sat in the corner, leaning against the bottom turnbuckle, leather jacket as dark as I remember.
Trace: And here I was thinking you and I were long done.
The Demon: Your choice, not mine. Your the one who decided to **** out and go corporate.
Used to be I had this voice in my head. Now I get it, it’s the WFWF, who here hasn’t gone through the whole imaginary voice phase, it’s almost like a right of passage. But this was more than that. Took me long enough to realise it though, always just assumed it was the leftover drugs pumping through my bloodstream. It wasn’t. It was me, my subconscious, the part of me I distanced myself from, the competitor, the maniac, the sociopath.
The Demon.
You think I’m bad? You don’t even know.
Used to be he ruled the roost, back when the drugs kept the common sense at bay and let my base impulses take over. But the more I got off them, the more I needed to keep my head to run the businesses and the WFWF, the more I pushed him aside. The more I separated the two halves of me. There wasn’t Trace Demon anymore, there was Trace and there was The Demon. But he never did want to go gently into that good night.
Trace: Don’t remember saying you could come out.
The Demon: Don’t remember asking.
Don’t know whether it’s the lack of sleep or the fact I might just be losing my mind but we both crack up laughing, more at the absurdity of it all than anything else.
The Demon: You f*cked up man, you know that, right?
Trace: It’s starting to dawn on me.
The Demon: I mean just look at you, moping around like someone cut your balls off.
I don’t mope, just so-
The Demon: Yes, you do mope, you’re doing it right now.
Trace: Get out of my head.
The Demon: Mate, I’m you, it’s my head too. I ain’t going anywhere. I mean end of the day you’re still just lying in a ring talking to the equivalent of a figment of your imagination. Pretty sad when you think about it.
Trace: I try not to think about anything that makes me look bad, to be honest.
We’re getting into dangerous territory right now. There’s a reason I’ve always refused to go to a therapist, and it’s not because they’re usually old and old people creep me out.
The Demon: That’s the problem, you’re all about image now. It’s all branding and business and all that sh*t. Makes me sick. You were meant to be a f*cking champion.
Trace: That’s what I’ve been working towards!
The Demon: No, it’s god damn not! It’s all about money and power but where’s that getting you? Admit it, you don’t give a sh*t about being the boss, do you. You’re just doing it because you can.
I’d argue if there was any point in doing so, but this guy’s me. If anyone’s qualified to call me out on my crap then he’s the one to do it. I keep talking like I’ve been feeling hollow inside since Superbrawl, but fact is it’s been a hell of a lot longer than that. It’s been months, years even. And it’s all because-
Trace: I’m me, not you.
The Demon: Nah, you don’t want to be me, because I don’t exist. Don’t make this more than it is, your brain trying to work out where it went wrong. What you want to be is you, the real you, the you that knows what he wants and takes it the right way, not through any of this bullsh*t. Here.
I don’t know where it comes from, but a black baseball bat rolls across the ring towards to hand. I recognise it, it’s the bat I used to crack my fathers skull open years back.
The Demon: Stop being the businessman Trace, be The Demon again, be the monster people feared. And don’t go in half-assed this time. Or I’ll brain you with that bat personally.
Trace: How? Like you said, you’re a figment of my imagination.
The Demon: Don’t f*cking test me.
And suddenly my body jolts up from where I’d laid down. My eyes dart about but there’s nobody there but me. What else was I expecting? Except there, clenched in my hand, is a black baseball bat. The very same one. I didn’t bring it in with me, did I? I haven’t even seen this thing in years.
Whatever the hell just happened I know one thing.
Christmas just came early.
< *** >
Brooklyn, For Some Reason
December 16th 2016; 19:15am
Otherwise Known as One Day Ago
Transitioning into a new phase of your life isn’t meant to be easy, but if my mind had told me it’d involve sitting in this sh*t hole of a flat in the middle of f*cking Brooklyn then I’d have told it to f*ck right off. That’s the thanks I get for pushing him into working outside of the office, ain’t it.
Still it gives me some time to prepare a game plan for the poor little idiot who’s getting in my way first. Frank Lynn. If there was ever one thing to prove that I’ve been sleepwalking through the past few years it’s signing this guy. I mean was it my fault that he’d turn out to be so utterly and fantastically mediocre? Again he sums up the past two years. A complete and utter failure.
I hear footsteps coming up the stairwell towards the front door and I swing around in my seat, hand on my new toy, darkness clouding my face. Can’t say I’m not enjoying getting back to the amateur dramatics.
Man: What the f*ck? I locked this, right?
That’ll be him discovering his front door swung wide open.
Woman: I think so.
Ooh what’s this, he’s got himself a little piece. I honestly didn’t think he had it in him anymore. I mean I was always told that a fluke never repeats itself.
The lights flicker on in the hall and I whistle, loud enough for them to hear, quiet enough to be suitably creepy.
Man: Kate, call the police.
Trace Demon: Aww no need for that.
The whole apartment goes quiet. I can’t help but grin, imagining him there, frozen on the spot.
Kate: Jason?
Trace Demon: Jason? F*ck man, I forgot you even had a first name.
He edges around the doorway, switches the lights on, his face white as a sheet. A slightly chubby but otherwise surprisingly un-repulsive woman stands behind him.
Trace Demon: How’s it going Anders? Long time no speak.
Jason Anders, my old right hand man. You know, before I f*cked his nineteen year old daughter and hired Elinor Nixx to replace him. He’s not exactly been too friendly with me since then, which made his job as one of WFWF’s lawyers a bit difficult. Hence the out of office job I’ve had him on. Don’t ask me what it is, I have absolutely no clue.
Jason Anders: What are you doing here?
Trace Demon: I’m just here to talk. Trust me, you’ll want to hear it.
Kate: Jason, should I still call the police?
He doesn’t answer, can’t make the words. He stares at me like he’s seen a ghost. No, not a ghost. A Demon.
Trace Demon: Well, should she?
Jason Anders: Kate, just… just go in the other room, okay. Let me handle this.
Kate: Are you sure?
Jason Anders: Just do it!
The poor girl just backs up and vanishes off. Not sure where, didn’t really explore the rest of the place, too scared about getting tetanus or something. I mean it is Brooklyn. I just chose the best seat for looking imposing.
Anders sits down opposite me. I’d offer him a drink, sure looks like he needs it, but I feel like Andres’ drink choices would sicken me.
Trace Demon: You look a little rough there Andres, long night?
Jason Anders: Well it was going just fine until the devil himself turned up and broke into my flat. How’d you even get in here?
Trace Demon: You can do pretty much anything with a paperclip. Or I just seduced your landlord.
Jason Anders: But my landlord’s ninety years old!
Trace Demon: You gotta do what you gotta do.
Jason Anders: What do you want Trace?
Trace Demon: Well let me be straight up with you Anders. I didn’t just come here to talk. In fact I came to give you this.
I reach inside my jacket pocket and he flinches, drawing a laugh as I throw an envelope across the table to him.
Trace Demon: What d’you think I was pulling out, a gun? You are an idiot sometimes.
He picks up the envelope, confused.
Trace Demon: Go on, I’m sure you know how to open an envelope. You’re not that useless… I hope.
He opens it slowly, probably scared of anthrax or a nail bomb or something equally as stupid. He pulls out the letter inside and his face goes through a range of emotions in the space of thirty seconds.
Jason Anders: You’re firing me!
Trace Demon: Keep reading.
Jason Anders: Wait, that’s my severance? But… this is more than I’d make in ten years working for you. What the hell’s going on?
Trace Demon: I’m selling the WFWF Anders.
Feels good to say that out loud.
Jason Anders: You’re… oh right, this is all some big joke isn’t it. You’re f*cking with me… you’re not f*cking with me, are you? Oh my god, you’ve finally lost your mind. You’ve finally cracked. Losing to Drakz actually broke you.
Trace Demon: Yeah, maybe it did, but it’s let me put myself back together again, properly this time. I don’t want to run the WFWF anymore. I don’t want to spend all my time dealing with business. I’ve made enough money that I can live extremely comfortably off the interest alone, not to mention my stock elsewhere. So it’s time I focused on what’s important, wrestling.
Jason Anders: What’s this got to do with me? Why’re you firing me and… paying me all this f*cking money?
Trace Demon: Consider it me trying to balance the scales a little. You did good work Anders, not great, definitely not outstanding, but good. And you’re a decent guy at the end of it all. You don’t deserve to be there for what’s coming. The WFWF is sold, I’m signing the contract tomorrow, and the guy buying it… well let’s just say you’ll be thanking me for getting you out of there pretty soon.
Jason Anders: And everyone else?
Trace Demon: F*ck ‘em. What have they ever done for you? Now, how about you introduce me to that girl you’ve got hiding out there.
He looks at me, unsure. I grin.
Trace Demon: I promise I’ll try my hardest not to f*ck her.
< *** >
December 17th 2016; 14:32am
Today
I scribble my signature on the contract and lean back in the seat.
I am officially no longer the owner of the WFWF, no longer bound by the rulebook that comes with it. The man sitting opposite me grins back at me and I see the devil in his eyes.
This is gonna be fun.
< *** >
And so it comes to an end, my two year plus run as owner of the WFWF has come to a screeching halt. It ends with a whimper, not a bang, but that’s okay, that’s the way it’s meant to be. Nobody in this company was ever going to tear the power from my hands as long as I still had breath in my body, it was only ever going to happen when I wanted it. And god did I want it. This job has been an anchor around my neck for too damn long, holding me back from the things I’m truly good at.
Hurting people. Breaking them. Making them scream for mercy.
That, of course, brings me to you Frank. Wish I could say I had some witty words ready to rip you apart, to hit you on a personal and emotional level as is expected. But truth is I don’t, because I don’t have the faintest idea who the f*ck you are. I mean what have you done to even be considered a challenge to someone like me? No, seriously, I’m asking, because I ain’t got the faintest idea. Must be Lila’s idea of a sick joke. Or a Christmas present for yours truly. Whatever the reason it’s the season for handing out beatings, and I’m happy to oblige.
The one thing I have heard is that you’ve got something going with poor old Joshua Dean. That true? If it is I guess you’re not just a nobody, you’re an idiot as well. See the way it usually works is you grab the coattails of somebody who’s actually going to the top and ride them as far as you can. Instead you’ve tied an anchor around your throat and it’s just a matter of time before it drops and breaks your neck in the process. Maybe you’re head’ll just straight up pop, who knows? I for one can’t wait to find out, call it a morbid fascination in seeing insects get stamped on.
Now I’m betting you think I’m going into this match feeling pretty p*ssed off over what went down at Superbrawl. But as you may have heard from the whole selling of the company thing I’ve had a bit of time to consider what that loss really means. And you’re not gonna like the answer Frank. See right now I’m feeling better than ever. I’ve thrown my own anchor overboard and now I’m rowing straight towards the WFWF World Championship. I’m feeling better, more violent, more dangerous than I’ve ever been. There’s nothing holding me back now Frank and you’re the poor unfortunate sap who’s got to find that out firsthand.
See before I was this rich, corporate greedy little sh*t I was the most dangerous man you have ever met. In less than two months in this company I won the Hardcore X Championship. Now stupid name aside that made me the most dangerous rookie in the game and now, ten years later, I’ve learned a whole lot of new tricks and I’m now ready to use them. See what people don’t realise is that I’ve been holding back, constrained by the handcuffs that is playing the businessman. Without that holding me back… well, you ever seen a lion tear apart an antelope? It’s gonna look a little something like that.
Again Frank I wish I had more to say, but to be honest who I’m facing doesn’t matter. That’s not the story of the day here. This is all about me. This has always been all about me. And when it comes down to it nobody gives a damn about the redshirts that get cut down in the process they just care what their leading man is doing. And right now? The WFWF’s leading man is me and I am going to tear a bloody swath through the WFWF until I get what I want.
No shackles, no rules, no strings around me. I am The King of Demons once more.
And I am here to take my throne.
It happened again. Despite everything I said, despite everything I did, that c*nt just stole it right out from under me. I bet he thought he was pretty smart, rolling me up like that, but where’d it get him by the end of the night? Sure, he’s still the WFWF World Champion, a title that should be around my waist, but it wasn’t me laid out, bloodied and looking like he’d just been plowed by a train of butch inmates at the local prison. Think about the upside Drakz, you finally found a look that works for you, suits you mate, really.
But I’m not blaming anyone else, not anymore. I took my eye off the ball. No excuses, I should have seen it coming because it’s the same thing I was going to do to him. Am I pissed he got in there first? Of course, but that’s what happened and there’s no point trying to twist it. No. No more excuses, no more distractions. That’s been the problem for too damn long now. Time to take responsibility for it all. Time to own up to my own shortcomings.
My phone rings for the fifth time in as many minutes,”Demons” blaring out across the room. The receptionist shoots me a disapproving glare. F*ck her, literally if I was in a better mood. Anyway, if she was an internationally renowned star like me I’m sure she’d make her theme her ringtone too. I snatch the phone up and check the latest voicemail. Not sure why, no real surprise who it’s from.
Elinor Nix: Trace, where the hell are you? I can’t keep them waiting much longer. This was meant to be the big f*cking moment and you’re f*cking it all up! Call me! Now!
But I don’t call her, and I won’t, not until this is done and dusted. I got too damn distracted, that’s the problem. Been the problem all along truth be told. Got too caught up with power plays and politics. Too caught up in playing the bossman to realise it was screwing me over where it really matters. Took being done over by that c*nt Drakz in the biggest moment of my life before I could figure it out.
Trace Demon: How long’s he gonna be?
Receptionist: He’ll be with you when he’s with you Mr. Demon.
Damn, and I thought Nixxy was a b*tch of a PA. I need to get this girl on the payroll. Is this what it feels like for all those saps I leave waiting ten minutes just for the fun of it? Being on the opposite end of a power play sucks.
There’s the phone again. Six calls now. Would have told her what I was doing but she’d have tried talking me out of it, probably would have succeeded too. Used my own ego against me. Doesn’t take much, end of the day. Bit of sweet talking, bit of rubbing up, metaphorically or otherwise. I’m not too proud to say my ego rules me. Fact is I can back it all up when it comes down to it. Dangerous mix, the desire to want it all, the skills to take it. Well, dangerous for everyone else.
Seventh missed call. Time to turn the thing off. Not even worth the hassle just to annoy this b*tch of a receptionist. Two seconds later, as if by magic, the phone at her desk rings. She glances at me while she speaks in a hushed whisper, probably talking about how incredibly handsome I am. Can’t think of anything else she’d be saying.
Receptionist: He’ll see you now.
Finally. Guys been trying to chase me up for months now and I finally decide to meet with him and he keeps me waiting for ten minutes. The nerve.
Trace Demon: How about after this me and you get out of here and go do something that’d make your mother weep?
She stares at me for a moment, clearly having never heard such an impressively confident line.
Receptionist: Me and you? Do I look like a prostitute?
Trace Demon: Well, not a classy one at least.
And with that I saunter on into the office, casually ducking underneath the stapler flying at my head as I go.
Today, it ends. Today, Trace Demon crumbles, and I rebuild better than before. Today is the day I become more dangerous than ever, so I have to ask you…
Are you ready?
< *** >
Trace Demon Presents
Epilogue / Prologue
Phoenix
BLD
December 14th 2016; 8:21am
Otherwise Known as Three Days Ago
If I were a cliche I’d be drunk by now. Unfortunately I’m a far better man than you, which means my sobriety isn’t under threat. However I am struggling to enjoy my pancakes, which is far, far worse.
It’s been nearly two weeks since Superbrawl and I’ve settled into a sort of numbness. A steady rhythm of not giving a s**t about anything and everything. That has, understandably, not gone down too well with my regular breakfast guest.
Elinor Nix: Are you listening to a word I’ve said?
Trace Demon: Honest answer?
Elinor Nix: F*ck’s sake Trace, you’ve got to be on the ball right now. Enough moping.
Trace Demon: Trace Demon does not mope. And if he did it’d be done with class, dignity and the kind of pout that’d make Jennifer Lawrence wet on sight.
Elinor Nix: While I’m grateful to see that you’ve still got enough in you to make a crude joke about America’s latest sweetheart, I need you focused on this, not on imagining what’d it be like to sleep with the blue girl from X-Men.
Trace Demon: Wait, sleep with Jennifer Lawrence, or with the actual Mystique? And what if it’s the latter pretending to be the former? I mean that’s just opening a whole can of worms right there.
Elinor Nix: Trace! Focus!
What is it that’s gotten Nixxy’s lacy panties all up in a punch? Well, it’s simple. In three days I step into a boardroom full of the WFWF’s most important and prominent sponsors. Simple, run of the mill meeting. Except it’s not, because Lila Sleater’s planning on trying to oust me, as leaked by her PA who as it turns out has a bit of a weakness for strong, dominant woman. Go figure. Thing is she’s not the only one who’s been planning a power play, and when it comes down to it nobody plays rougher than yours truly.
Except, all of that was before Superbrawl, because that c*nt stole my title and then that other c*nt stole my chance for retribution. Now I’m stuck in a numb, overwhelming state of nothing matters.
Trace Demon: Look, I get it, it’s important. Complete control of the company and all that, but it’s all under control, right? Has been for months. I’ve f*cked daughters, blackmailed fathers, organised that weird donkey show for that guy at the burger joint-
That was linked to this, right?
Trace Demon: We’ve done everything we need to do but walk in there and swing our giant d*cks about.
I take another bite of what should be a delightful breakfast pancake. Instead it tastes dull and lifeless. Like Yukio’s career. Oh woe is me.
Elinor Nix: While that’s a lovely visual and yes, we do have everything lined up and in order, that doesn’t change the fact that unless you are there, the real you, then it all falls apart.
Trace Demon: Well I’m not sending a clone, am I? Even though I’m sure at one point I definitely did have one.
Though that might have been the drugs. Really should sort out exactly what in my lengthy backstory is real one of these days.
Elinor Nix: I don’t mean that you idiot. I mean the real you. Trace Demon, master manipulator. The guy who made that Canucks fan literally piss himself-
Fat lot of good that did us. Losing to the Canucks, god, as if I didn’t think I could feel any more low.
Elinor Nix: What’s not going to work is if this mopey, depressed little emo girl walks in there like she’s just found out that cutting doesn’t make her look cool.
Trace Demon: Now you’re just taking it too far.
Elinor Nix: Am I? Because I remember the Trace Demon who’d have cut me down in my tracks if I’d have said that a few weeks back. So what, you lost, get the f*ck over it. You’ve lost before, you’ll lose again, it’s how the world works. But at the end of the day it doesn’t matter how many times you get knocked down-
Trace Demon: Oh god, this is one of those “it’s how many times you get back up against” speeches isn’t it?
Elinor Nix: No, it’s one of those “if you don’t get up and start acting like a damn man then I’m just going to cut your balls off and be done with the whole thing” speeches!
She’s hot when she’s angry, and usually I’d take her into the toilets and show her my balls firsthand, but I’m not even sporting a half-chub right now. What the f*ck is wrong with me?
Trace Demon: Well if you’re gonna do it then make it quick, and make sure I bleed out. I don’t want any of this eunuch rubbish, I ain’t got the bald head and robe-wearing physique to pull it off.
She’s trying to work out whether to hit me or not, and in the end she just kind of deflates, like she knows she’s fighting a losing battle and can’t figure out another way to attack. Just roll me up and steal the win Nix, seems to work for everyone else.
Elinor Nix: Three days Trace. That’s how long you’ve got to get your head out of your ass and realise that there is more at stake here than a belt wrapped around your waist. If you don’t do this now then you won’t get another shot at it, you’ll be done, nothing more than a pretty face for the posters. Lila Sleater will take control of your company and you won’t be able to do a damn thing about it. Is that what you want?
I consider it. I really do. And I drag out the only words my shrivelled little brain will let me.
Trace Demon: Who the f*ck knows anymore.
Elinor shakes her head and rises. Can’t even sit at the same table as me anymore. More fool her, she’s still got a fresh batch of pancakes coming and now they’re all going down my throat. Not that they’ll fill the hole inside. God, even I thought that sounded too emo.
Elinor Nix: Well figure it out Trace. It’s now or never. Decide what it is you want because if you don’t take it now you never will.
And with that she’s gone, storming out with such style I’d swear she’s been watching tapes of me. And I’m left alone, with a table full of pancakes and absolutely no idea what I’m meant too do next.
It’s good to be the king, right?
< *** >
House of Hell Training School
December 15th 2016; 12:44am
Otherwise Known as Two Days Ago
The place is closed for the day. Thank god, otherwise I’d run the risk of running into McGurk. Which one? Who the f*ck cares, they’re all as bad as each other at this moment. Wait, he does still work here, right? I should pay more attention to the places I’m pumping money into.
Doesn’t matter though, I’m not here to talk about business. Not here to talk at all, at least not to a McGurk. No, I’ve got more important things on my mind right now. Something Elinor said struck a chord. “Decide on what you want.” What is it I want, really? Past few years I’ve been so focused on money and power that I don’t even remember what I started doing it all for. Used to be I’d run a mile before I’d take a job with any responsibility other than for my own hide. But now here I am running wrestling schools, owning night clubs, running less-than-legal operations just to make a buck.
I own the damn WFWF. What do I care about running a wrestling promotion?
I look up to my office, remembering all the times I looked down at the people training here. What was I looking at? People, or money? Was there really any difference? Nah, that’s not the place I’m here for.
This is what I’m here for. I climb inside the main training ring, remembering when me and Wayne set it up. Only a few years back now but it feels like a lifetime. Did I pour my blood and sweat into this place for the profit? Is that what it was for? I wish I knew.
Looking around at the facility I barely recognise it anymore. Wayne’s been the driving force behind it ever since that whole beating up his daughter for the World title thing. That kind of thing sours a friendship apparently. We put it behind us, as much as we could, but let’s just say I’m not about to be invited around for Christmas dinner any time soon. This was meant to be a nest egg for the future, a legacy for once all my poor life decisions catch up to me, wasn’t it?
I don’t know anymore.
I lie back in the ring, looking up at the lights, the one position no wrestler wants to find themselves in. But that’s where I was at Superbrawl, wasn’t it, looking up at steel and lights as the official counted three. Before I know it my eyes have drifted shut.
The Demon: Well you look like sh*t.
They snap up immediately. I know that voice, I know it like the back of my hand, and sure enough when I sit up he’s there, sat in the corner, leaning against the bottom turnbuckle, leather jacket as dark as I remember.
Trace: And here I was thinking you and I were long done.
The Demon: Your choice, not mine. Your the one who decided to **** out and go corporate.
Used to be I had this voice in my head. Now I get it, it’s the WFWF, who here hasn’t gone through the whole imaginary voice phase, it’s almost like a right of passage. But this was more than that. Took me long enough to realise it though, always just assumed it was the leftover drugs pumping through my bloodstream. It wasn’t. It was me, my subconscious, the part of me I distanced myself from, the competitor, the maniac, the sociopath.
The Demon.
You think I’m bad? You don’t even know.
Used to be he ruled the roost, back when the drugs kept the common sense at bay and let my base impulses take over. But the more I got off them, the more I needed to keep my head to run the businesses and the WFWF, the more I pushed him aside. The more I separated the two halves of me. There wasn’t Trace Demon anymore, there was Trace and there was The Demon. But he never did want to go gently into that good night.
Trace: Don’t remember saying you could come out.
The Demon: Don’t remember asking.
Don’t know whether it’s the lack of sleep or the fact I might just be losing my mind but we both crack up laughing, more at the absurdity of it all than anything else.
The Demon: You f*cked up man, you know that, right?
Trace: It’s starting to dawn on me.
The Demon: I mean just look at you, moping around like someone cut your balls off.
I don’t mope, just so-
The Demon: Yes, you do mope, you’re doing it right now.
Trace: Get out of my head.
The Demon: Mate, I’m you, it’s my head too. I ain’t going anywhere. I mean end of the day you’re still just lying in a ring talking to the equivalent of a figment of your imagination. Pretty sad when you think about it.
Trace: I try not to think about anything that makes me look bad, to be honest.
We’re getting into dangerous territory right now. There’s a reason I’ve always refused to go to a therapist, and it’s not because they’re usually old and old people creep me out.
The Demon: That’s the problem, you’re all about image now. It’s all branding and business and all that sh*t. Makes me sick. You were meant to be a f*cking champion.
Trace: That’s what I’ve been working towards!
The Demon: No, it’s god damn not! It’s all about money and power but where’s that getting you? Admit it, you don’t give a sh*t about being the boss, do you. You’re just doing it because you can.
I’d argue if there was any point in doing so, but this guy’s me. If anyone’s qualified to call me out on my crap then he’s the one to do it. I keep talking like I’ve been feeling hollow inside since Superbrawl, but fact is it’s been a hell of a lot longer than that. It’s been months, years even. And it’s all because-
Trace: I’m me, not you.
The Demon: Nah, you don’t want to be me, because I don’t exist. Don’t make this more than it is, your brain trying to work out where it went wrong. What you want to be is you, the real you, the you that knows what he wants and takes it the right way, not through any of this bullsh*t. Here.
I don’t know where it comes from, but a black baseball bat rolls across the ring towards to hand. I recognise it, it’s the bat I used to crack my fathers skull open years back.
The Demon: Stop being the businessman Trace, be The Demon again, be the monster people feared. And don’t go in half-assed this time. Or I’ll brain you with that bat personally.
Trace: How? Like you said, you’re a figment of my imagination.
The Demon: Don’t f*cking test me.
And suddenly my body jolts up from where I’d laid down. My eyes dart about but there’s nobody there but me. What else was I expecting? Except there, clenched in my hand, is a black baseball bat. The very same one. I didn’t bring it in with me, did I? I haven’t even seen this thing in years.
Whatever the hell just happened I know one thing.
Christmas just came early.
< *** >
Brooklyn, For Some Reason
December 16th 2016; 19:15am
Otherwise Known as One Day Ago
Transitioning into a new phase of your life isn’t meant to be easy, but if my mind had told me it’d involve sitting in this sh*t hole of a flat in the middle of f*cking Brooklyn then I’d have told it to f*ck right off. That’s the thanks I get for pushing him into working outside of the office, ain’t it.
Still it gives me some time to prepare a game plan for the poor little idiot who’s getting in my way first. Frank Lynn. If there was ever one thing to prove that I’ve been sleepwalking through the past few years it’s signing this guy. I mean was it my fault that he’d turn out to be so utterly and fantastically mediocre? Again he sums up the past two years. A complete and utter failure.
I hear footsteps coming up the stairwell towards the front door and I swing around in my seat, hand on my new toy, darkness clouding my face. Can’t say I’m not enjoying getting back to the amateur dramatics.
Man: What the f*ck? I locked this, right?
That’ll be him discovering his front door swung wide open.
Woman: I think so.
Ooh what’s this, he’s got himself a little piece. I honestly didn’t think he had it in him anymore. I mean I was always told that a fluke never repeats itself.
The lights flicker on in the hall and I whistle, loud enough for them to hear, quiet enough to be suitably creepy.
Man: Kate, call the police.
Trace Demon: Aww no need for that.
The whole apartment goes quiet. I can’t help but grin, imagining him there, frozen on the spot.
Kate: Jason?
Trace Demon: Jason? F*ck man, I forgot you even had a first name.
He edges around the doorway, switches the lights on, his face white as a sheet. A slightly chubby but otherwise surprisingly un-repulsive woman stands behind him.
Trace Demon: How’s it going Anders? Long time no speak.
Jason Anders, my old right hand man. You know, before I f*cked his nineteen year old daughter and hired Elinor Nixx to replace him. He’s not exactly been too friendly with me since then, which made his job as one of WFWF’s lawyers a bit difficult. Hence the out of office job I’ve had him on. Don’t ask me what it is, I have absolutely no clue.
Jason Anders: What are you doing here?
Trace Demon: I’m just here to talk. Trust me, you’ll want to hear it.
Kate: Jason, should I still call the police?
He doesn’t answer, can’t make the words. He stares at me like he’s seen a ghost. No, not a ghost. A Demon.
Trace Demon: Well, should she?
Jason Anders: Kate, just… just go in the other room, okay. Let me handle this.
Kate: Are you sure?
Jason Anders: Just do it!
The poor girl just backs up and vanishes off. Not sure where, didn’t really explore the rest of the place, too scared about getting tetanus or something. I mean it is Brooklyn. I just chose the best seat for looking imposing.
Anders sits down opposite me. I’d offer him a drink, sure looks like he needs it, but I feel like Andres’ drink choices would sicken me.
Trace Demon: You look a little rough there Andres, long night?
Jason Anders: Well it was going just fine until the devil himself turned up and broke into my flat. How’d you even get in here?
Trace Demon: You can do pretty much anything with a paperclip. Or I just seduced your landlord.
Jason Anders: But my landlord’s ninety years old!
Trace Demon: You gotta do what you gotta do.
Jason Anders: What do you want Trace?
Trace Demon: Well let me be straight up with you Anders. I didn’t just come here to talk. In fact I came to give you this.
I reach inside my jacket pocket and he flinches, drawing a laugh as I throw an envelope across the table to him.
Trace Demon: What d’you think I was pulling out, a gun? You are an idiot sometimes.
He picks up the envelope, confused.
Trace Demon: Go on, I’m sure you know how to open an envelope. You’re not that useless… I hope.
He opens it slowly, probably scared of anthrax or a nail bomb or something equally as stupid. He pulls out the letter inside and his face goes through a range of emotions in the space of thirty seconds.
Jason Anders: You’re firing me!
Trace Demon: Keep reading.
Jason Anders: Wait, that’s my severance? But… this is more than I’d make in ten years working for you. What the hell’s going on?
Trace Demon: I’m selling the WFWF Anders.
Feels good to say that out loud.
Jason Anders: You’re… oh right, this is all some big joke isn’t it. You’re f*cking with me… you’re not f*cking with me, are you? Oh my god, you’ve finally lost your mind. You’ve finally cracked. Losing to Drakz actually broke you.
Trace Demon: Yeah, maybe it did, but it’s let me put myself back together again, properly this time. I don’t want to run the WFWF anymore. I don’t want to spend all my time dealing with business. I’ve made enough money that I can live extremely comfortably off the interest alone, not to mention my stock elsewhere. So it’s time I focused on what’s important, wrestling.
Jason Anders: What’s this got to do with me? Why’re you firing me and… paying me all this f*cking money?
Trace Demon: Consider it me trying to balance the scales a little. You did good work Anders, not great, definitely not outstanding, but good. And you’re a decent guy at the end of it all. You don’t deserve to be there for what’s coming. The WFWF is sold, I’m signing the contract tomorrow, and the guy buying it… well let’s just say you’ll be thanking me for getting you out of there pretty soon.
Jason Anders: And everyone else?
Trace Demon: F*ck ‘em. What have they ever done for you? Now, how about you introduce me to that girl you’ve got hiding out there.
He looks at me, unsure. I grin.
Trace Demon: I promise I’ll try my hardest not to f*ck her.
< *** >
December 17th 2016; 14:32am
Today
I scribble my signature on the contract and lean back in the seat.
I am officially no longer the owner of the WFWF, no longer bound by the rulebook that comes with it. The man sitting opposite me grins back at me and I see the devil in his eyes.
This is gonna be fun.
< *** >
And so it comes to an end, my two year plus run as owner of the WFWF has come to a screeching halt. It ends with a whimper, not a bang, but that’s okay, that’s the way it’s meant to be. Nobody in this company was ever going to tear the power from my hands as long as I still had breath in my body, it was only ever going to happen when I wanted it. And god did I want it. This job has been an anchor around my neck for too damn long, holding me back from the things I’m truly good at.
Hurting people. Breaking them. Making them scream for mercy.
That, of course, brings me to you Frank. Wish I could say I had some witty words ready to rip you apart, to hit you on a personal and emotional level as is expected. But truth is I don’t, because I don’t have the faintest idea who the f*ck you are. I mean what have you done to even be considered a challenge to someone like me? No, seriously, I’m asking, because I ain’t got the faintest idea. Must be Lila’s idea of a sick joke. Or a Christmas present for yours truly. Whatever the reason it’s the season for handing out beatings, and I’m happy to oblige.
The one thing I have heard is that you’ve got something going with poor old Joshua Dean. That true? If it is I guess you’re not just a nobody, you’re an idiot as well. See the way it usually works is you grab the coattails of somebody who’s actually going to the top and ride them as far as you can. Instead you’ve tied an anchor around your throat and it’s just a matter of time before it drops and breaks your neck in the process. Maybe you’re head’ll just straight up pop, who knows? I for one can’t wait to find out, call it a morbid fascination in seeing insects get stamped on.
Now I’m betting you think I’m going into this match feeling pretty p*ssed off over what went down at Superbrawl. But as you may have heard from the whole selling of the company thing I’ve had a bit of time to consider what that loss really means. And you’re not gonna like the answer Frank. See right now I’m feeling better than ever. I’ve thrown my own anchor overboard and now I’m rowing straight towards the WFWF World Championship. I’m feeling better, more violent, more dangerous than I’ve ever been. There’s nothing holding me back now Frank and you’re the poor unfortunate sap who’s got to find that out firsthand.
See before I was this rich, corporate greedy little sh*t I was the most dangerous man you have ever met. In less than two months in this company I won the Hardcore X Championship. Now stupid name aside that made me the most dangerous rookie in the game and now, ten years later, I’ve learned a whole lot of new tricks and I’m now ready to use them. See what people don’t realise is that I’ve been holding back, constrained by the handcuffs that is playing the businessman. Without that holding me back… well, you ever seen a lion tear apart an antelope? It’s gonna look a little something like that.
Again Frank I wish I had more to say, but to be honest who I’m facing doesn’t matter. That’s not the story of the day here. This is all about me. This has always been all about me. And when it comes down to it nobody gives a damn about the redshirts that get cut down in the process they just care what their leading man is doing. And right now? The WFWF’s leading man is me and I am going to tear a bloody swath through the WFWF until I get what I want.
No shackles, no rules, no strings around me. I am The King of Demons once more.
And I am here to take my throne.
I dont know good luck 
