Post by Rated R on Jun 9, 2017 9:22:58 GMT -5
I probably should have left right after, but I never have been able to resist an entertaining show. And really what's more entertaining than watching Frank Lynn sit awkwardly, humiliated by yours truly. Now, as a man not afraid to appreciate my own frequent strokes of genius, I've got to say this might just be my magnum opus. Handcuffing the poor idiot to a fan? Yeah, that's a top three for sure. Which of course is why, with the adrenaline of the match still pumping away through my veins, I choose to take a seat through the back, prime position in front of a monitor, to watch the rest unfold. Now sure, none of this might be making the actual broadcast, but in the day of internet exclusives those cameras don't stop rolling until the last fan is out the door, and they're in no hurry to go anywhere right now.
And why would they? Not when you’ve got one of the WFWF’s biggest losers handcuffed to a god damn fan. Let’s be honest here, if this was Joe Bishop we were talking about then they’d be distraught, horrified, outraged. They’d be kicking off, rioting, calling for my head on a stake. But it isn’t the golden boy of the WFWF, it’s his lackey, his underling, the nobody that’s only gotten themselves a main event because they’ve attached themselves to the champion. Frank Lynn’s a joke, and I’ve just made an even bigger one out of him, and the fans are loving it. Even that fat tub of lard I handcuffed him too is having a good time, hanging for photos, showing off the WFWF World Championship I so kindly left behind. Everyone else? They’re getting a good chuckle out of the entire thing, and rightfully so. When somebody tells you a really good joke you laugh, right?
Just so happens that Frank Lynn’s a walking, talking joke. Who knew? Well, everybody, that’s the point.
But like I said, I probably shouldn’t have stopped to enjoy the fun, because if I’d made a swift getaway then I could have avoided the other laughing stock of the WFWF.
"Are you f*cking kidding me?"
Come on, you knew who I was talking about already, right?
"Lila. Pleasure as always. How about we skip the usual back and forth banter, as fun as it is, and just get round to why you’re trying to spoil my good mood this time?"
"Are you being serious right now?"
"Oh come on, that’s the kind of banter I just asked to skip."
Always said she was a little slow on the uptake.
"Let me say this slow so you understand. That… was… a… fan."
"I… don’t… give… a… sh*t."
"Unbelievable! Un-godamn-believable."
"Honestly if you're having a hard time believing this then I feel like you've forgotten the past two years worth of interactions, because this is not high on the list of things I've done that would be hard to believe."
I’m not sure what’s antagonising her more, my clear disregard for whatever point she’s trying to make or the fact that I’ve been having the entire conversation with one eye still on the monitor. Honestly, it’s not my fault. Franky boy is still cuffed up and the ring crew seem way more interested in getting the WFWF World Championship back than they are cutting him loose. That’s not the funny bit, because obviously anything would be more valuable than Frank Lynn, no, the bit thats cracking me up is the look on the kids face, like somebody straight up f*cked his girlfriend and made him watch.
Not that I’d know what that face looks like, scouts honour.
"Will you take this seriously."
"Alright, I’m in ultra-serious mode now. Promise."
Spoiler warning, I’m really not.
"Trace, I've come to expect a lot of sh*t from you, but you know better than anyone that this is a company. A wrestling company sure, but still a company. Do whatever you want to the other guys who are hired to do this, I can deal with that myself, but the fans? The people who pay to be here? Putting your hands on them leads to lawsuits. Lawsuits leads to a loss of sponsors. A loss of sponsors leads to a loss of revenue. Understand?"
I've given up on watching the monitor, hard to enjoy something when your nemesis is arching you. But suddenly it's not the funniest thing in the room.
"Why are you laughing?"
I've got to compose myself before I can get the question out.
"Why did the sponsors bring you in?"
"What?"
"That's why you're here, right? The sponsors brought you in for a reason. Why?"
"To put an end to all your sh*t. To stop you driving this company into the ground through your own vanity."
"So doesn't it hurt a little knowing that you failed?"
Her face is blank, confused, utterly clueless. It'd be sad if it wasn't so damn funny.
"But you lost. You're not the owner anymore, you've got no say, no power, you've got nothing."
I mean wrong on everything except the owner bit, but that's not my point, but being wrong is the only thing that Lila Sleater is good at, can't begrudge the woman her one and only talent.
"And yet I'm still here, causing trouble for you. More than ever if we're honest. That handcuff stunt? I couldn't have gotten away with that when I owned the place, think of the bad press. But now? With my little iron-clad golden contract? I can do what I want and the only person who has to deal with the fallout is you. You think you won this little game of ours? Nah, I just changed the way it's played."
I stand so that I can smirk right in her face, take in the smell of anger up close. There's no scent sweeter.
"Get the f*ck out of my building."
"B*tch, I'm already gone."
< *** >
Trace Demon Presents
The Ties That Bind
Chapter One
Small Talk
Family reunions can be awkward. More so when the man who for thirty years has laid claim to the title of Uncle is in fact your biological father. More so again when you and said bio-dad are the only people in the room who know that fact. More so in triplicate when he believes he’s the only one who knows. So as I sit in the sitting room of his perfect suburban house with his not-so-perfect suburban family, I can only think of one thing - this is a f*cking mess, eh?
"So the wrestling’s going well, eh?"
"Yeah Damon, it’s going pretty well."
Ugh, small talk. The bane of my existence.
Damon Demon was two years older than the man who raised me (using that phrase extremely loosely). He was the good brother, the one with upside, the one who was going to make something of himself. He knew it, his brother knew it and their parents knew it, and never let either of them forget it might I add. Now none of this excuses my ‘old man’ for everything he did, but it don’t bother me to say that resentment can be a mighty powerful motivator for ruining other peoples lives, and I was the one in the firing line just because I was there. I’ve done the same to other people plenty of times, the only reason I get away with it is because it’s all done in the name of ‘sport’. Course the one difference between me and my old man is that I didn’t secretly despise the people I beat up because they weren’t my actual child. Not that I know of anyway.
"Can I get you a drink Trace? We’ve got some Molson’s in the fridge?"
"I don’t drink."
"Oh, I forgot, I’m so sorry."
"It’s fine. Water’ll do."
Sarah Cresswell was a good girl from a good family, who met the wrong man when she was just sixteen. Got pregnant, guy ran off, classic story. Ten years later she met Damon and the two got married. Damon took in her daughter, Sarah kept her last name. She got the better of that deal if you ask me. She’s the apple pie, butter wouldn’t melt sort, though as a Canadian I’m obliged to point out that apple pie is overrated.
She passes me some bottled mineral water, because people around here are too good for tap water, and we go back to making awkward small talk. I say we. I mostly sit and give one sentence answers. I know, shocking right? Trace Demon keeping his mouth shut. Thing is I only speak when there’s something worth saying, and talking about how Damon’s doing well at the office (assistant to the assistant manager or some sh*t like that) and how Sarah’s just joined a new pilates group are not conversations worth having, not when you can’t make snide remarks because you’re trying to be a good role model for your kid. Parenting - making interesting people boring since the day the bloody world began.
"That kid’s exhausting."
Kara Cresswell. Flame-red hair, like her mother, bordering on six foot, almost entirely legs, athletic based on the abs on show thanks to the short tank-top she’s wearing. Just turned twenty. Also technically my cousin, but in reality my step-sister, which makes all of the prior painfully more attractive to someone with… let’s say slightly deviant tendencies like myself. She’s Sarah’s kid from the aforementioned deadbeat, adopted by Damon.
"Oh Kara, you’re covered in mud."
Can’t say I noticed.
"Where’s Eliza?"
"Let’s just say I’m not the only one covered in mud. Emily’s cleaning her off. I’m gonna hit the shower before dinner."
And off she saunters. Steal my beating c*ck.
< *** >
Upstairs, the bathroom, washing my hands after taking a piss. Been hear an hour and already itching to get out. Can’t stand the banality of it all, the small talk, the pointless conversations about life. Who gives a sh*t what you did for the local bake sale? Do I strike you as a bake sale kind of person, because I can undeniable say I am not. Why did I even agree to this bloody thing, I’ve no interest in driving down memory lane, not unless it’s with a f*cking bulldozer.
"Oh, sorry, didn’t realise anyone was in here."
I’m so caught up in my own head I don’t hear the door creak open, but it doesn’t take me more than a millisecond to notice who’s opened in. Kara, wearing nothing but a towel that barely covers anything. She’s barely hiding her grin.
"I was just going to take a shower. I got a little dirty."
Did I just walk into a generic porn film? Because if so I am not complaining.
"Well nobody wants to be dirty, do they?"
"Oh I don’t know, sometimes it can be fun. You know, you look a little dirty too."
Is this getting uncomfortable for anybody else? Why is a hot girl being extremely forward making me uncomfortable? I’m not even hard… okay, I’m not that hard.
"Got to be honest, didn’t expect someone related to Damon to be so… edgy."
She leans in close, just close enough for the sweet mix of perfume and sweat to drift around me. For a brief moment I forget whatever objection I’ve got to f*cking my own step-sister (god why is that thought so hot). Then she grabs the shampoo from the cabinet to my right and backs up, smiling innocently.
"Better get clean. Close the door for me?"
She winks, which is so f*cking devious it almost hurts my balls, then drops her towel, making sure I get a good look at her towel, and stepping into the shower. I resist the urge to make a very bad mistake and walk out of the room. What the f*ck just happened?
< *** >
I sit outside, breeze against my cheek, having learnt that just because you live in the suburbs doesn’t mean you know how to cook. Eliza’s asleep on the sofa and darkness is steadily creeping in. The small talk has continued, along with the added extra of some devious flirting from the readhead, but my mind can’t stop thinking of getting the f*ck out of here as quickly as possible. Happy families is not my bad.
"Penny for your thoughts?"
What a ridiculous f*cking saying. I’ve got more than enough pennies already.
"My girls were happy to hear you were coming. Think they thought I was making it up when I told them I had a family."
"All they had to do was turn on the TV. Not difficult to point me out."
He sits down on the porch beside me and I inch away, instinct taking over.
"I’m glad you came too. We’re family, and families important."
"I know we’ve not exactly had a lot of contact, but I don’t go for all that cheesy sh*t. Just so you know."
"You’re dad was the same."
"I go for that even less."
Sh*t, another awkward silence.
"I’m sorry. I should have been there to stop what was going on. The moment I found out I should have been there. He was my brother. You’re my… you’re family. Faith, Axel… your mother… I should have been there. I should have done something. You might not care anymore, you might not want to think about it, but I’ve got to say it. I’m sorry Trace."
"Everyone’s f*cking sorry after it’s happened."
I’m done, leaving, heading for the door even as I speak.
"But guess what? Sorry doesn’t mean sh*t, and anyone who tells you it does? They’re lying."
Small talk? F*ck small talk. Never got anyone anywhere anyway.
< *** >
Chapter Two
Memories Mean Nothing
When my mother died one of the first things I did, quietly, was buy the house that I grew up in. I wish I could say that it wasn’t sentimental, but that’d be a lie, and if I’m going to lie I at least want it to be a good one. But it’s not what you think. I didn’t do it to keep it out of the banks hands, it’s not like they’re going to miss one more broken down sh*t heap anyway. It’s not that I want to remember all the good times, because I’d struggle to think of any even with a gun to my head, or that I want to remember how all the bad times shaped me, because I honestly don’t give a sh*t.
Straight up? I bought the place because I didn’t want anybody else to have it. I didn’t want some other family living in my house. It’s a control issue, not that that should be a surprise to anyone. I’ve never been great at letting go. People like me, winners, they never are. But the thing is when you buy something simply because you can, simply because you don’t want anyone else to have it, you end up sitting on a lot of sh*t that you’ve just got no use for. I have no use for the house that I grew up in. I don’t want to live here, I don’t want to take a tour down memory lane, I don’t want anything to do with this sh*thole.
I want to tear it down. So that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Now I can’t do it personally. Apparently the Ontario planning office don’t trust me to personally drive an excavator. Don’t ask me why, stupid people do stupid things. But that doesn’t stop me from pulling up a front row seat, a deckchair to be precise, as the excavator slowly moves towards the house that my ‘father’ terrorised me in. The same house that my mother did nothing to stop him in. What would have happened if Damon had manned up and accepted the truth, if my mother had taken me away. But that’s not what happened, and foresight is a gift taken only by the foolish.
The sound of a house being torn down is beautiful, the sight sublime. Memories leak from it’s walls with nowhere to go, breaking up into the ether. Bricks crash to the ground, pipes are ripped apart, the structure falls, and the history goes with it. Eventually, all that’ll be left is an empty patch of land, ready for something new. I feel the same feeling in my pores, freeing myself from my history, releasing pent-up anger that I didn’t even realise I’d held onto.
It’s like cumming in slow-motion, ecstacy stretched out for eternity.
And then, just like that, it’s all gone, and I’m left with just a broken house and shrapnel littering the lawn. I pull my phone out of my pocket and make a call.
"I think we should talk."
< *** >
Story Time with Trace Demon
I found out the truth when I was fifteen. My grandmother was a real spiteful sort, a nasty woman who gets a bit of a thrill out of antagonising others. Snide comments were her currency, and she was f*cking rich in them. Whatever you did, no matter how impressive, was never quite enough for her. Thinking back on it it’s harder to believe that Damon’s remotely well adjusted more than it is why daddy dearest turned into a drunk monster.
Anyway, point is, my grandmother was a sh*t stirrer and she took great joy in dropping the truth on me. She wanted to see the chaos it’d cause, see how it’d tear everyone apart, even her own children. Now I’m not going to say I’m exactly what you’d call a ‘good guy’ but my twisted mind ends at the front door. Family is different, family is untouchable. She didn’t see it that way and wanted to see the pain it’d cause telling her already troubled grandchild that his father wasn’t his father. That his mother had f*cked her husbands brother and given birth to a b*stard. She hadn’t banked on the fact that I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. That and the fact I reacted by being bitter that Damon had never stepped in which made him just as worthy to be a dad as the one I’d already got.
Didn’t matter really. Turns out I wasn’t the only person that granny dropped the truth bomb on. Found out later that she’d done the exact same thing to my father, not that he needed the pushing. Think he half-suspected something anyway. Can’t say for certain that that’s why he turned to the booze, why he went from waste of space to waste of space with a drinking problem and proclivity for domestic violence, but it’s got to be a frontrunner, right? So when you think about it all of my problems can be traced back to that old hag of a grandmother. I’d pay her a visit if she hadn’t been flattened by a truck. Tim Hortons, always doing some good for good, honest Canadians.
Anyway, point is, I grew up knowing that there was probably a reason for all those beatings, and I grew up pretty sure I knew what exactly that reason was. But it didn’t matter. Because at the end of the day it doesn’t matter why you’re taking a beating, it just matters how you handle it. It doesn’t matter why somebody is coming at you, it just matters what you’re going to do about it. I’ve taken beatings all my life and every single time I’ve stood back up, every single time I’ve fought back. I’ve never stopped, I’ve never stayed down and even when I’m beaten I always come back swinging.
You think anything you people throw at me is going to make a dent? Please, you don’t live with demons without learning how to walk through fire.
< *** >
Chapter Three
Next
"If you ask me it’s genius."
Elinor’s voice echoes from my phones loudspeaker as I sit at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for a knock at the door. I’ve sent Emily out with Eliza for a few hours, not wanting them to hear whatever happens next. Problem was that left me waiting around and I don’t do well with waiting, so instead I made an impromptu phone call.
"What’s so genius about it?"
"Every show being promoted as a pay per view? Think of the advertising revenue they’re going to bring in, thing of the press."
"Think of all the people watching Lila Sleater fail more regularly."
"However you want to see it, more people means a bigger paycheck, and better negotiating power."
"Because I need either of those things."
"Who was talking about you? Mama needs her money."
I’m resisting the urge to start pacing around the room. Not nerves, impatience. It leaks through my words.
"There anything you actually wanted to talk about? Not like you to call me, not unless you’ve got something to rant about."
The doorbell rings. They’re here.
"All you need to know is if you don’t hear from me by tomorrow then you should probably call the police."
"Trace?! What do you-"
I hang up and pull the door open.
"Hey dad."
< *** >
Oh Frank, I warned you, didn’t I? I told you exactly what was going to happen if you kept hanging around with a bad crowd. But rebellious youths never listen to their elders, even when they’re so much smarter than you. Shame really, seeing someone be so self-destructive as to walk into a fight they couldn’t possibly win. I warned you Frank, but you marched to that ring anyway, and look what happened. You lost. Hell you didn’t just lose, you were humiliated. Let’s call it a moment of genius, handcuffing you to that fan. Hey, I was just doing what you and Joe keep telling me to do. I was doing what was right for the fans. That’s what you want, right? They’re there to be entertained, and were they ever entertained watching you sit there like a f*cking fool. Lila didn’t find it funny though, no surprise there.
There’s this pattern I’ve noticed, something a little bit worrying, something that just keeps popping up again and again. Let me run you through it. Step one, Trace Demon does something extremely bad. Step two, Lila Sleater, pissed off because of step one, books Trace Demon in a match designed to punish him for said extremely bad thing. Step three, opponent booked in said match gets completely decimated by Trace Demon who does something extremely bad in the process. Rinse and repeat.
This is just the latest in a long line of matches that good old Lila has booked me in hoping that it’ll teach me the error of my ways, or get my head caved in, one or the other. Now I’m not saying that you don’t deserve to be here Frank, anyone who can get utterly humiliated like that and still show their face clearly has some balls, or no brains, one or the other, but the problem is that you’ve not been put in this spot on merit. You’ve been put here in the deluded hope that you’ll be able to put up a fight, that your hatred for me will be enough to drive you to just flip out and hurt me. But like I said, there’s a pattern here, and this one’s going to end just like all the rest. I’m going to hurt you, Lila’s going to get pissed off and next show I’ll be booked against some other no-hoper who sees themselves as the man to punish me for my sins, of which there are many.
Let me remind you of the last person to step up, the last so-called punishing encounter I had. Scarlett Quinn. Now tell me Frank, do you see Scarlett around? Do you see that stupid little girl in the back? Because last I checked Scarlett was told she might never wrestle again because of, and I quote, one of the worst concussions that the doctor has ever seen. That’s what happens when Lila tries to punish me. People get hurt, careers end, lives are changed. Sometimes people just get handcuffed to fat guys named Kevin. Not every time can be a winner, y’know? I’m only one man. Point is that time after time you’ve all tried, time after time you’ve all failed. There is no toppling this king, there is no ending my reign of nightmares. This villain will not be vanquished.
So Frank, you might think that you’re something special, that you’ve been given the job of taking my head because you’re capable, because you’re determined, because you’re going to give it your all, but the truth is you’re just the latest in a long line. There’s nothing special about you, there’s nothing that sets you apart from any of the others. The only reason anyone knew your name before was because you latched on to Joe Bishop. Now? You’re just the guy that got handcuffed to a fan.
After all that you’re probably thinking that I’m underestimating you, don’t you? But guess what Frank, I’m not, because I’m not a f*cking idiot. I’ve been doing this long enough to know that if you look past someone then they’re gonna crack you upside the head. I said last time out that I saw plenty of potential in you Frank, and I wasn’t lying. Sure you’ve latched your wagon to a horse destined to die but you’ve got that spark, that never-say-die attitude. If you survive this ridiculous revolution Bishop’s always harping on about then maybe, one day, you can fluke a title reign of your own. Maybe they’ll bring back the Women’s title, I’m sure you can make a run at that given how you’re clearly Bishop’s bottom b*tch. But that’ll be then, this is now, and right now I’m at my god damned prime and your best isn’t even close to that.
But Frank, I do hope you’re ready, because you’re stepping into my yard. No rules, no DQ’s, no holds barred. Call it what you like, a street fight is my house, and nobody is ready for this house of horrors. Trust me. You saw what I did to Scarlett, and I had to follow rules in that one. No such luck for you kid. See Frank, I might see potential in you, but I’m not afraid to snuff it out to prove a point, and you’d better believe I’ve got a point to prove. In fact, ending you does a lot for me. Not only does it get rid of a constant annoyance, but it sends a nice little f*ck you to Lila and cripples Joe’s revolution at the same time. End of the day Frank, ending you here and now would make things a whole lot more interesting for me. See Frank I like chaos, and the more I cause the more fun I have. Joe’s probably telling you not to be scared, to stand tall, that you can win this.
But you can’t win this, and you should be scared. Because when I’m through with you I don’t think you’ll be doing much standing at all. Frank, I could say you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, but truth is you’ve just made a lot of wrong turns, and now you’ve walked straight into my house. The oven’s on, the heat is rising, and I’m about to shove your ass straight into the fire.
And I’m going to cackle like a motherf*cking hyena the whole time.
And why would they? Not when you’ve got one of the WFWF’s biggest losers handcuffed to a god damn fan. Let’s be honest here, if this was Joe Bishop we were talking about then they’d be distraught, horrified, outraged. They’d be kicking off, rioting, calling for my head on a stake. But it isn’t the golden boy of the WFWF, it’s his lackey, his underling, the nobody that’s only gotten themselves a main event because they’ve attached themselves to the champion. Frank Lynn’s a joke, and I’ve just made an even bigger one out of him, and the fans are loving it. Even that fat tub of lard I handcuffed him too is having a good time, hanging for photos, showing off the WFWF World Championship I so kindly left behind. Everyone else? They’re getting a good chuckle out of the entire thing, and rightfully so. When somebody tells you a really good joke you laugh, right?
Just so happens that Frank Lynn’s a walking, talking joke. Who knew? Well, everybody, that’s the point.
But like I said, I probably shouldn’t have stopped to enjoy the fun, because if I’d made a swift getaway then I could have avoided the other laughing stock of the WFWF.
"Are you f*cking kidding me?"
Come on, you knew who I was talking about already, right?
"Lila. Pleasure as always. How about we skip the usual back and forth banter, as fun as it is, and just get round to why you’re trying to spoil my good mood this time?"
"Are you being serious right now?"
"Oh come on, that’s the kind of banter I just asked to skip."
Always said she was a little slow on the uptake.
"Let me say this slow so you understand. That… was… a… fan."
"I… don’t… give… a… sh*t."
"Unbelievable! Un-godamn-believable."
"Honestly if you're having a hard time believing this then I feel like you've forgotten the past two years worth of interactions, because this is not high on the list of things I've done that would be hard to believe."
I’m not sure what’s antagonising her more, my clear disregard for whatever point she’s trying to make or the fact that I’ve been having the entire conversation with one eye still on the monitor. Honestly, it’s not my fault. Franky boy is still cuffed up and the ring crew seem way more interested in getting the WFWF World Championship back than they are cutting him loose. That’s not the funny bit, because obviously anything would be more valuable than Frank Lynn, no, the bit thats cracking me up is the look on the kids face, like somebody straight up f*cked his girlfriend and made him watch.
Not that I’d know what that face looks like, scouts honour.
"Will you take this seriously."
"Alright, I’m in ultra-serious mode now. Promise."
Spoiler warning, I’m really not.
"Trace, I've come to expect a lot of sh*t from you, but you know better than anyone that this is a company. A wrestling company sure, but still a company. Do whatever you want to the other guys who are hired to do this, I can deal with that myself, but the fans? The people who pay to be here? Putting your hands on them leads to lawsuits. Lawsuits leads to a loss of sponsors. A loss of sponsors leads to a loss of revenue. Understand?"
I've given up on watching the monitor, hard to enjoy something when your nemesis is arching you. But suddenly it's not the funniest thing in the room.
"Why are you laughing?"
I've got to compose myself before I can get the question out.
"Why did the sponsors bring you in?"
"What?"
"That's why you're here, right? The sponsors brought you in for a reason. Why?"
"To put an end to all your sh*t. To stop you driving this company into the ground through your own vanity."
"So doesn't it hurt a little knowing that you failed?"
Her face is blank, confused, utterly clueless. It'd be sad if it wasn't so damn funny.
"But you lost. You're not the owner anymore, you've got no say, no power, you've got nothing."
I mean wrong on everything except the owner bit, but that's not my point, but being wrong is the only thing that Lila Sleater is good at, can't begrudge the woman her one and only talent.
"And yet I'm still here, causing trouble for you. More than ever if we're honest. That handcuff stunt? I couldn't have gotten away with that when I owned the place, think of the bad press. But now? With my little iron-clad golden contract? I can do what I want and the only person who has to deal with the fallout is you. You think you won this little game of ours? Nah, I just changed the way it's played."
I stand so that I can smirk right in her face, take in the smell of anger up close. There's no scent sweeter.
"Get the f*ck out of my building."
"B*tch, I'm already gone."
< *** >
Trace Demon Presents
The Ties That Bind
Chapter One
Small Talk
Family reunions can be awkward. More so when the man who for thirty years has laid claim to the title of Uncle is in fact your biological father. More so again when you and said bio-dad are the only people in the room who know that fact. More so in triplicate when he believes he’s the only one who knows. So as I sit in the sitting room of his perfect suburban house with his not-so-perfect suburban family, I can only think of one thing - this is a f*cking mess, eh?
"So the wrestling’s going well, eh?"
"Yeah Damon, it’s going pretty well."
Ugh, small talk. The bane of my existence.
Damon Demon was two years older than the man who raised me (using that phrase extremely loosely). He was the good brother, the one with upside, the one who was going to make something of himself. He knew it, his brother knew it and their parents knew it, and never let either of them forget it might I add. Now none of this excuses my ‘old man’ for everything he did, but it don’t bother me to say that resentment can be a mighty powerful motivator for ruining other peoples lives, and I was the one in the firing line just because I was there. I’ve done the same to other people plenty of times, the only reason I get away with it is because it’s all done in the name of ‘sport’. Course the one difference between me and my old man is that I didn’t secretly despise the people I beat up because they weren’t my actual child. Not that I know of anyway.
"Can I get you a drink Trace? We’ve got some Molson’s in the fridge?"
"I don’t drink."
"Oh, I forgot, I’m so sorry."
"It’s fine. Water’ll do."
Sarah Cresswell was a good girl from a good family, who met the wrong man when she was just sixteen. Got pregnant, guy ran off, classic story. Ten years later she met Damon and the two got married. Damon took in her daughter, Sarah kept her last name. She got the better of that deal if you ask me. She’s the apple pie, butter wouldn’t melt sort, though as a Canadian I’m obliged to point out that apple pie is overrated.
She passes me some bottled mineral water, because people around here are too good for tap water, and we go back to making awkward small talk. I say we. I mostly sit and give one sentence answers. I know, shocking right? Trace Demon keeping his mouth shut. Thing is I only speak when there’s something worth saying, and talking about how Damon’s doing well at the office (assistant to the assistant manager or some sh*t like that) and how Sarah’s just joined a new pilates group are not conversations worth having, not when you can’t make snide remarks because you’re trying to be a good role model for your kid. Parenting - making interesting people boring since the day the bloody world began.
"That kid’s exhausting."
Kara Cresswell. Flame-red hair, like her mother, bordering on six foot, almost entirely legs, athletic based on the abs on show thanks to the short tank-top she’s wearing. Just turned twenty. Also technically my cousin, but in reality my step-sister, which makes all of the prior painfully more attractive to someone with… let’s say slightly deviant tendencies like myself. She’s Sarah’s kid from the aforementioned deadbeat, adopted by Damon.
"Oh Kara, you’re covered in mud."
Can’t say I noticed.
"Where’s Eliza?"
"Let’s just say I’m not the only one covered in mud. Emily’s cleaning her off. I’m gonna hit the shower before dinner."
And off she saunters. Steal my beating c*ck.
< *** >
Upstairs, the bathroom, washing my hands after taking a piss. Been hear an hour and already itching to get out. Can’t stand the banality of it all, the small talk, the pointless conversations about life. Who gives a sh*t what you did for the local bake sale? Do I strike you as a bake sale kind of person, because I can undeniable say I am not. Why did I even agree to this bloody thing, I’ve no interest in driving down memory lane, not unless it’s with a f*cking bulldozer.
"Oh, sorry, didn’t realise anyone was in here."
I’m so caught up in my own head I don’t hear the door creak open, but it doesn’t take me more than a millisecond to notice who’s opened in. Kara, wearing nothing but a towel that barely covers anything. She’s barely hiding her grin.
"I was just going to take a shower. I got a little dirty."
Did I just walk into a generic porn film? Because if so I am not complaining.
"Well nobody wants to be dirty, do they?"
"Oh I don’t know, sometimes it can be fun. You know, you look a little dirty too."
Is this getting uncomfortable for anybody else? Why is a hot girl being extremely forward making me uncomfortable? I’m not even hard… okay, I’m not that hard.
"Got to be honest, didn’t expect someone related to Damon to be so… edgy."
She leans in close, just close enough for the sweet mix of perfume and sweat to drift around me. For a brief moment I forget whatever objection I’ve got to f*cking my own step-sister (god why is that thought so hot). Then she grabs the shampoo from the cabinet to my right and backs up, smiling innocently.
"Better get clean. Close the door for me?"
She winks, which is so f*cking devious it almost hurts my balls, then drops her towel, making sure I get a good look at her towel, and stepping into the shower. I resist the urge to make a very bad mistake and walk out of the room. What the f*ck just happened?
< *** >
I sit outside, breeze against my cheek, having learnt that just because you live in the suburbs doesn’t mean you know how to cook. Eliza’s asleep on the sofa and darkness is steadily creeping in. The small talk has continued, along with the added extra of some devious flirting from the readhead, but my mind can’t stop thinking of getting the f*ck out of here as quickly as possible. Happy families is not my bad.
"Penny for your thoughts?"
What a ridiculous f*cking saying. I’ve got more than enough pennies already.
"My girls were happy to hear you were coming. Think they thought I was making it up when I told them I had a family."
"All they had to do was turn on the TV. Not difficult to point me out."
He sits down on the porch beside me and I inch away, instinct taking over.
"I’m glad you came too. We’re family, and families important."
"I know we’ve not exactly had a lot of contact, but I don’t go for all that cheesy sh*t. Just so you know."
"You’re dad was the same."
"I go for that even less."
Sh*t, another awkward silence.
"I’m sorry. I should have been there to stop what was going on. The moment I found out I should have been there. He was my brother. You’re my… you’re family. Faith, Axel… your mother… I should have been there. I should have done something. You might not care anymore, you might not want to think about it, but I’ve got to say it. I’m sorry Trace."
"Everyone’s f*cking sorry after it’s happened."
I’m done, leaving, heading for the door even as I speak.
"But guess what? Sorry doesn’t mean sh*t, and anyone who tells you it does? They’re lying."
Small talk? F*ck small talk. Never got anyone anywhere anyway.
< *** >
Chapter Two
Memories Mean Nothing
When my mother died one of the first things I did, quietly, was buy the house that I grew up in. I wish I could say that it wasn’t sentimental, but that’d be a lie, and if I’m going to lie I at least want it to be a good one. But it’s not what you think. I didn’t do it to keep it out of the banks hands, it’s not like they’re going to miss one more broken down sh*t heap anyway. It’s not that I want to remember all the good times, because I’d struggle to think of any even with a gun to my head, or that I want to remember how all the bad times shaped me, because I honestly don’t give a sh*t.
Straight up? I bought the place because I didn’t want anybody else to have it. I didn’t want some other family living in my house. It’s a control issue, not that that should be a surprise to anyone. I’ve never been great at letting go. People like me, winners, they never are. But the thing is when you buy something simply because you can, simply because you don’t want anyone else to have it, you end up sitting on a lot of sh*t that you’ve just got no use for. I have no use for the house that I grew up in. I don’t want to live here, I don’t want to take a tour down memory lane, I don’t want anything to do with this sh*thole.
I want to tear it down. So that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Now I can’t do it personally. Apparently the Ontario planning office don’t trust me to personally drive an excavator. Don’t ask me why, stupid people do stupid things. But that doesn’t stop me from pulling up a front row seat, a deckchair to be precise, as the excavator slowly moves towards the house that my ‘father’ terrorised me in. The same house that my mother did nothing to stop him in. What would have happened if Damon had manned up and accepted the truth, if my mother had taken me away. But that’s not what happened, and foresight is a gift taken only by the foolish.
The sound of a house being torn down is beautiful, the sight sublime. Memories leak from it’s walls with nowhere to go, breaking up into the ether. Bricks crash to the ground, pipes are ripped apart, the structure falls, and the history goes with it. Eventually, all that’ll be left is an empty patch of land, ready for something new. I feel the same feeling in my pores, freeing myself from my history, releasing pent-up anger that I didn’t even realise I’d held onto.
It’s like cumming in slow-motion, ecstacy stretched out for eternity.
And then, just like that, it’s all gone, and I’m left with just a broken house and shrapnel littering the lawn. I pull my phone out of my pocket and make a call.
"I think we should talk."
< *** >
Story Time with Trace Demon
I found out the truth when I was fifteen. My grandmother was a real spiteful sort, a nasty woman who gets a bit of a thrill out of antagonising others. Snide comments were her currency, and she was f*cking rich in them. Whatever you did, no matter how impressive, was never quite enough for her. Thinking back on it it’s harder to believe that Damon’s remotely well adjusted more than it is why daddy dearest turned into a drunk monster.
Anyway, point is, my grandmother was a sh*t stirrer and she took great joy in dropping the truth on me. She wanted to see the chaos it’d cause, see how it’d tear everyone apart, even her own children. Now I’m not going to say I’m exactly what you’d call a ‘good guy’ but my twisted mind ends at the front door. Family is different, family is untouchable. She didn’t see it that way and wanted to see the pain it’d cause telling her already troubled grandchild that his father wasn’t his father. That his mother had f*cked her husbands brother and given birth to a b*stard. She hadn’t banked on the fact that I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. That and the fact I reacted by being bitter that Damon had never stepped in which made him just as worthy to be a dad as the one I’d already got.
Didn’t matter really. Turns out I wasn’t the only person that granny dropped the truth bomb on. Found out later that she’d done the exact same thing to my father, not that he needed the pushing. Think he half-suspected something anyway. Can’t say for certain that that’s why he turned to the booze, why he went from waste of space to waste of space with a drinking problem and proclivity for domestic violence, but it’s got to be a frontrunner, right? So when you think about it all of my problems can be traced back to that old hag of a grandmother. I’d pay her a visit if she hadn’t been flattened by a truck. Tim Hortons, always doing some good for good, honest Canadians.
Anyway, point is, I grew up knowing that there was probably a reason for all those beatings, and I grew up pretty sure I knew what exactly that reason was. But it didn’t matter. Because at the end of the day it doesn’t matter why you’re taking a beating, it just matters how you handle it. It doesn’t matter why somebody is coming at you, it just matters what you’re going to do about it. I’ve taken beatings all my life and every single time I’ve stood back up, every single time I’ve fought back. I’ve never stopped, I’ve never stayed down and even when I’m beaten I always come back swinging.
You think anything you people throw at me is going to make a dent? Please, you don’t live with demons without learning how to walk through fire.
< *** >
Chapter Three
Next
"If you ask me it’s genius."
Elinor’s voice echoes from my phones loudspeaker as I sit at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for a knock at the door. I’ve sent Emily out with Eliza for a few hours, not wanting them to hear whatever happens next. Problem was that left me waiting around and I don’t do well with waiting, so instead I made an impromptu phone call.
"What’s so genius about it?"
"Every show being promoted as a pay per view? Think of the advertising revenue they’re going to bring in, thing of the press."
"Think of all the people watching Lila Sleater fail more regularly."
"However you want to see it, more people means a bigger paycheck, and better negotiating power."
"Because I need either of those things."
"Who was talking about you? Mama needs her money."
I’m resisting the urge to start pacing around the room. Not nerves, impatience. It leaks through my words.
"There anything you actually wanted to talk about? Not like you to call me, not unless you’ve got something to rant about."
The doorbell rings. They’re here.
"All you need to know is if you don’t hear from me by tomorrow then you should probably call the police."
"Trace?! What do you-"
I hang up and pull the door open.
"Hey dad."
< *** >
Oh Frank, I warned you, didn’t I? I told you exactly what was going to happen if you kept hanging around with a bad crowd. But rebellious youths never listen to their elders, even when they’re so much smarter than you. Shame really, seeing someone be so self-destructive as to walk into a fight they couldn’t possibly win. I warned you Frank, but you marched to that ring anyway, and look what happened. You lost. Hell you didn’t just lose, you were humiliated. Let’s call it a moment of genius, handcuffing you to that fan. Hey, I was just doing what you and Joe keep telling me to do. I was doing what was right for the fans. That’s what you want, right? They’re there to be entertained, and were they ever entertained watching you sit there like a f*cking fool. Lila didn’t find it funny though, no surprise there.
There’s this pattern I’ve noticed, something a little bit worrying, something that just keeps popping up again and again. Let me run you through it. Step one, Trace Demon does something extremely bad. Step two, Lila Sleater, pissed off because of step one, books Trace Demon in a match designed to punish him for said extremely bad thing. Step three, opponent booked in said match gets completely decimated by Trace Demon who does something extremely bad in the process. Rinse and repeat.
This is just the latest in a long line of matches that good old Lila has booked me in hoping that it’ll teach me the error of my ways, or get my head caved in, one or the other. Now I’m not saying that you don’t deserve to be here Frank, anyone who can get utterly humiliated like that and still show their face clearly has some balls, or no brains, one or the other, but the problem is that you’ve not been put in this spot on merit. You’ve been put here in the deluded hope that you’ll be able to put up a fight, that your hatred for me will be enough to drive you to just flip out and hurt me. But like I said, there’s a pattern here, and this one’s going to end just like all the rest. I’m going to hurt you, Lila’s going to get pissed off and next show I’ll be booked against some other no-hoper who sees themselves as the man to punish me for my sins, of which there are many.
Let me remind you of the last person to step up, the last so-called punishing encounter I had. Scarlett Quinn. Now tell me Frank, do you see Scarlett around? Do you see that stupid little girl in the back? Because last I checked Scarlett was told she might never wrestle again because of, and I quote, one of the worst concussions that the doctor has ever seen. That’s what happens when Lila tries to punish me. People get hurt, careers end, lives are changed. Sometimes people just get handcuffed to fat guys named Kevin. Not every time can be a winner, y’know? I’m only one man. Point is that time after time you’ve all tried, time after time you’ve all failed. There is no toppling this king, there is no ending my reign of nightmares. This villain will not be vanquished.
So Frank, you might think that you’re something special, that you’ve been given the job of taking my head because you’re capable, because you’re determined, because you’re going to give it your all, but the truth is you’re just the latest in a long line. There’s nothing special about you, there’s nothing that sets you apart from any of the others. The only reason anyone knew your name before was because you latched on to Joe Bishop. Now? You’re just the guy that got handcuffed to a fan.
After all that you’re probably thinking that I’m underestimating you, don’t you? But guess what Frank, I’m not, because I’m not a f*cking idiot. I’ve been doing this long enough to know that if you look past someone then they’re gonna crack you upside the head. I said last time out that I saw plenty of potential in you Frank, and I wasn’t lying. Sure you’ve latched your wagon to a horse destined to die but you’ve got that spark, that never-say-die attitude. If you survive this ridiculous revolution Bishop’s always harping on about then maybe, one day, you can fluke a title reign of your own. Maybe they’ll bring back the Women’s title, I’m sure you can make a run at that given how you’re clearly Bishop’s bottom b*tch. But that’ll be then, this is now, and right now I’m at my god damned prime and your best isn’t even close to that.
But Frank, I do hope you’re ready, because you’re stepping into my yard. No rules, no DQ’s, no holds barred. Call it what you like, a street fight is my house, and nobody is ready for this house of horrors. Trust me. You saw what I did to Scarlett, and I had to follow rules in that one. No such luck for you kid. See Frank, I might see potential in you, but I’m not afraid to snuff it out to prove a point, and you’d better believe I’ve got a point to prove. In fact, ending you does a lot for me. Not only does it get rid of a constant annoyance, but it sends a nice little f*ck you to Lila and cripples Joe’s revolution at the same time. End of the day Frank, ending you here and now would make things a whole lot more interesting for me. See Frank I like chaos, and the more I cause the more fun I have. Joe’s probably telling you not to be scared, to stand tall, that you can win this.
But you can’t win this, and you should be scared. Because when I’m through with you I don’t think you’ll be doing much standing at all. Frank, I could say you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, but truth is you’ve just made a lot of wrong turns, and now you’ve walked straight into my house. The oven’s on, the heat is rising, and I’m about to shove your ass straight into the fire.
And I’m going to cackle like a motherf*cking hyena the whole time.
