Post by The Violent Gentleman on Jun 26, 2017 21:36:01 GMT -5
|Promise.|
The Ride
How long since the last headlight bathed my pale face, I couldn’t say. I was out in the middle of nowhere, gone, lost. Proper lost. Sturgill Simpson sang just above a whisper, as if just to put my mind at ease. I appreciated the sentiment but my thoughts rolled and crashed like rogue waves, violent and without warning of their content, the way they always had and I suppose the way they always would. There’s a comfort even in chaos, if there’s consistency. Doesn’t do anything for healing but it allows a damaged man to map out ways to survive, if no way to escape.
"If you’ll wait around a while, I’ll make you fall for me. I promise you, I promise you I will."
The motor in my 2016 Rolls Royce Wraith was quiet but in the same way as the eye of a storm. The dealer seemed indignant when I assured him I wanted it in flat black, no test-drive would be necessary and I didn’t require a receipt as I tossed my debit card at his head. To his credit and hunger for a commission, he snatched it just before it hit the pavement and just after it left a red indention on his furrowed brow. “Excellent choice, Sir.” I drove it off the lot, leaving my 2015 Dodge Challenger idling in front of the dealership entrance. I wonder what they did with it. At least the kid had a story to tell that was worth more and was far more interesting than his beige suit from JC Penny. Pretending to be rich, or pretending not to be poor. I’m not sure which I hate more; I’m not quite sure which best describes me.
Like a dare unspoken, my eyes caught the reflective beam of the speed limit sign, forty-five, my right foot grew heavy as the stomach acid drew back and rose like the rogues of my mind. I was going well over one hundred and ninety before the flashing lights triggered the interest of my tired eyes. How long had I been driving, where was I going and should I pull over or give another nobody another story to tell somebody some other time. Sometimes I could hardly stand my lack of authority and other times I could hardly stand when the law caught up with me.
I pulled into a fairly large patch of gravel just off the shoulder of the pitch black road. I placed the car in park and turned off the engine, hitting the automatic window button and placing my hands atop the fine leather covered steering wheel and taking a deep breath from the chilled breeze.
“A race car driver, eh?”
I heard his predictable joke but was still processing the sound his police-issued boots made against the loose gravel. I couldn’t tell you why, but in that moment, nothing was more important than decoding the sounds of small rocks made from larger counterparts.
“Well I thought it was funny…”
His half-sad, half-joking follow-up was enough to tear me away from my more important endeavors. I slowly turned my gaze toward the man. He was probably just shy of sixty, a little over average height and a little underweight, despite a gut that threatened to shear the buttons off his carefully ironed shirt. His eyes were kind and his white mustache was a week past proper grooming. I hated him immediately.
“Yeah. I guess I was going pretty quick.”
He snorted and slapped his left knee with his right hand.
“Well that don’t hardly say it. I observed you going a hundred and seventy kilometers back there.”
I hoped that his jovial disposition was a good omen for me but it was all that I could do not to open the door into his weathered face and finish the job with my fifteen hundred dollar Jeffery West shoes. Knowing you’re irrational and given to violent tendencies is not the same as being able to control such things.
“You must of caught me as I was slowing down to take that curve. I was going at least one-ninety.”
His head tilted back like a dusty, old Pez dispenser.
“HA!”
My left ear rung from the sharpness of his exclamation and did little for my want to introduce these high society black soles to a little blue collar blues. After what felt like hours but was only a few torturous seconds, the old man leveled his head and shook it slowly from side to side.
“You know, most folks try to argue that they were going slower than I say, or go on about how they’re in a hurry. The Wife is at home with a baby on the way or they just got to singin’ along with a good one on the radio and laid the pedal down.”
I breathed sharply from my nose and shook my head in agreement.
“A lie, dressed up in even the best of intentions, is still a lie.”
The man’s smile faded for the first time and he nodded thoughtfully.
“I like that.”
He buried his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.
“Well, I appreciate the honesty. You seem like a good enough fella, what do you say you slow down a tick and we say goodnight?”
I nodded again as he gave me a friendly wave. The engine rolled like thunder and my windows were already back up before I thought to speak again.
“I can promise you two things: I’m not going to slow down and whatever good there ever was in me was exorcised a long time ago.”
I saw the old man shake his head and smile to himself as I sped away into a dark night that couldn’t begin to see its hand in front of its face in the presence of my mood.
Fix Me in Forty-Five
BEEEEEP
“Sean, this is Lila Sleater. I wanted to speak with you about something. Please give me a call back at your soonest convenience. Thank you.”
BEEEEEP
“Sean, Lila Sleater again. Not sure if you received my last call or not. Anyway, I just wanted to talk to you for a minute. Give me a call back. I’ll be in the office until three-thirty. Thank you.”
BEEEEEP
“Sean...Lila again. This is my third attempt at reaching you. I spoke with your agent and he said he hasn’t heard from you either. I hope everything is okay. Please give me a call as soon as possible. I’ll be in my office for another...fifty minutes. Thanks.”
BEEEEEP
“Sean, this is getting ridiculous. You better be in the hospital or a graveyard. I’ve spent all day trying to track you down. Your agent said he isn’t allowed to call you, that he can only take calls from you. That’s just...strange. I’m home now and will be for another hour or so. I’m attending an important dinner with some big sponsors at seven-thirty, so please call me before seven or after ten as I’ll be tied up.”
BEEEEEP
“It’s after one in the morning. Sigh I’m not even angry anymore. I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed. I expect to hear from you by breakfast tomorrow, either by phone or in the obituaries. Goodnight. Oh, and Sean, I like my breakfast early.”
I found myself giving into laughter as I laid, head and back against the windshield of my Rolls Royce, my legs across the hood, feet crossed. My hands were folded behind my head and my eyes were tightly closed, half from lack of sleep and half from genuine amusement. My sharp cackle left my mouth and dispersed into the cool night air. The sounds of the ocean waves nursing the shoreline found a calmness in me, if only for a passing moment as my laughter subsided.
I pulled my left hand from behind my head and shook my forearm, causing the cuff of my black dress shirt to fall a few inches and reveal my gold rolex. I opened my eyes, squinting to make out the face of the watch.
“Four-eleven. I hope she hasn’t eaten yet.”
I searched in the inside breast pocket of my black suit jacket before retrieving my black Galaxy 8. I leafed through my contacts before stopping at one labeled Boss in quotation marks. I pressed it and then the speaker button before resting it on my chest near my mouth and returning my left hand behind my head.
RIIIIING
RIIIIING
RIIIIING
RIIIIING
“Hell--Hello?”
Her voice was dripping sleep, husky and vulnerable, wrapped in the safety of the night.
“Lila Sleater. Sean Casey, returning your call. Well, calls.”
“Sean...Sean. Oh, Sean Casey. Right. Wait, what time is it?”
I could hear the rustling of bedding and then the click of a lamp.
“Sean, it’s four-thirteen in the morning. Is everything alright?”
I let my eyes close again.
“Yeah. You seemed eager to hear from me, so here we are.”
She sighed, long and tremored with frustration.
“Where the hell have you been? I called you, I don’t even remember how many times. Your agent didn’t know where you were. You ripped like a tornado through the dressing room and then you disappeared for days.”
“Oh, you know. Here and there. Had a couple drinks at a really nice bar in Montreal. Can’t quite recall the name. Oh, and a steak. A hell of a steak. See, now I’m kicking myself for not remembering the name of that bar. Then I got in my car and headed for the next town.”
“Well, at least you’re in Winnipeg. Now, about Confluence.”
“I’m not in Winnipeg.”
Her voice cracked.
“What? You just said you drove to the next town.”
“That certainly was my intention, but I got a bit distracted by the radio and overshot it.”
“Overshot it? Where the hell are you?”
“Newfoundland.”
There was a long pause. I could almost see her massaging her temple, restraining her already rising temper.
“Newfoundland?”
“Have you ever been? It’s beautiful this time of year. A bit cool at night, though.”
“Sean...what the
are you doing in Newfoundland?”I opened my eyes, taking in the stars as they suffered my mortality and lingered among the black eyed sky.
“Like I said, I got lost in the radio and overshot it.”
“Overshot it? You didn’t overshoot it, Sean. Winnipeg is the opposite direction!”
Was it? My lips moved as I thought out the map of Canada in my mind before settling on the inescapable truth of her statement.
“Fair enough. I suppose I got turned around.”
“Are you drunk?”
Her question was firm and unexpected. I looked to my right, the moonbeams bouncing in and out of the half-emptied bottle of Cragganmore scotch that sat on the roof of the car. The other half warmed my muscles and turned the tides of my stomach acid.
“Drunk seems a bit of an exaggeration, but I can’t say that I’m sober.”
She sighed again, this time in frustration with varying degrees of concern.
“Look Sean, I knew your reputation before signing you; both in and out of the ring. Whether you realize it or not, your name has been batted around the WFWF for years, always with the same ending refrain: “Sean Casey is one of the best wrestlers on earth, but we can’t afford to be apart of the collateral damage that he brings with him.” I thought maybe you had changed. Grown up, sobered up...I don’t know, softened with age and maturity?”
The sincerity in her voice was making me uncomfortable. I sat up, grabbing my cell phone, pressing it to my right ear and retrieved the bottle of scotch from the roof. I pulled it to my chest and began slowly unscrewing it with my left thumb.
“I’m well aware of the opportunities that have passed me by because I indulge in certain poisons. A little too much at times, if I’m honest. But I always knew that I would make it to the WFWF, in good time and on my own terms.”
“Sean, you have a little less than a year left on your deal. I could have signed you for three or five or maybe even ten and just as many promoters would have cursed me as would have signed in relief. You are a risk, but a calculated one.”
Her last words had me stifle a laugh as the lid came unscrewed and fell into my lap.
“I still made it. Even if it is only a year. I made it to the major leagues because I am the best damn wrestler in the world. The best.”
“But don’t you see, Sean? It doesn’t have to be just a year. Your potential is off the charts. You’re thirty-seven, but you are physically and mentally entering the prime of your career. You have a lot to offer here.”
I gripped the bottle tighter, the sharp and sweet aroma making my mouth water.
“I’m listening.”
“What you did after your match, tearing up the dressing room, that has to be dealt with. I have to make an example or next I’ll have Trace Demon demanding a private dressing room just so he can set it on fire.”
I let out a sharp snort at the thought. He would probably torch it to destroy any evidence of debauchery he had left behind.
“So what, a fine? How much? You know what, don’t bother, call my agent in the morning with the particulars and he’ll cut you a check.”
“Well, usually it would be a fine, but I know you are a wealthy man and you are known to almost have a disdain for money, so I doubt you would miss a couple thousand dollars.”
She was right, I wouldn’t. Money was just an easier path to the sins I wanted to fall deeper in. Without it, I would just find a detour.
“I’m starting to dislike how much you know about me.”
I could hear her smile through the quiet static.
“Here’s my offer, and before I give it to you, know that it is not open for negotiation. I do know a lot about you and I know you have been accused of having a silver tongue.”
“Gold, actually.”
She sighed again, amused but undeterred.
“I want you to see a sports psychologist once a week. Preferably within a day or two of each event. We have a great doctor on retainer who has worked with our wrestlers before. He himself is a former wrestler and college football player, so he knows how to talk with real athletes. His name is Dr. Greg Oldham. I can have him flown in to any town that you’re in as well as to your home in Calgary, all on the WFWF’s dime. I want you clean and sober. I want your temper saved for the ring. I want the best version of Sean Casey that there has ever been.”
I let out a deep breath, slowly reclining back against the windshield, holding the bottle on my stomach. A psychologist? No. There was absolutely no way that was happening.
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I’m suspending you for the remainder of the Canadian tour, after which, we can revisit my offer and hopefully you will have reconsidered and I can put you back on the road with the company.”
I jolted back up, the bottle of scotch nearly spilling in my hand. I slid off the hood and stood in front of the car, bathed in soft and bright of the headlights.
“Are you f*cking kidding me? I’ve just had my first match! I’m the biggest Canadian star you have. You need me on this tour.”
“We have Trace De--”
I pointed, bottle in hand, into the night as if she was before me.
“Don’t you dare. I’m Sean f*cking Casey! I was causing trouble and collecting championships while he was playing with my action figures!”
I was pacing now, glancing at the ever-endearing bottle of scotch every few moments.
“Exactly! That’s why I’m giving you this ultimatum, because you’re Sean
ing Casey. But you’re also a drunk and a prescription pill abuser and someone with a hair trigger temper. I can’t have that in my company. I won’t.”I stopped as her last words settled in. I turned, my back to the headlights and my eyes to the ocean. It was black and beautiful, dressed in a suit of mourning. Me or my poor decisions, I couldn’t be sure. I spoke, the fire if my gut extinguished, my buzz killed by the mirror of the moon. I knew I sounded broken, I just hoped the distance would somehow curve the impact.
“Alright. I’ll give it a shot, but I can’t promise anything.”
Her response came wrapped in a voice that defied the hour of our conversation.
“That’s all I’m asking for. Now, I’m going to try and go back to sleep, if I can. You really got me worked up. I wish I was drunk.”
I lifted the bottle to my lips and took a long pull from it before letting it hang at my side again. I spoke once more, defiant yet shaken.
“I wish I was sober.”
Die Young and Save Yourself
The engine’s mechanical lullaby had me on the cusp of counting sheep, the coffee I bought from the cute redhead behind the Starbucks counter tasted as bland as her lips would have and the whiskey that I added to Irish it up had me thinking there was no way she was old enough to drink. Underaged, in mind, if not body. I couldn’t help but think that Trace Demon wouldn’t have minded, anybody without an Adam’s apple and with a pulse would get him through another day of avoiding reflections in the mirror.
I stretched and sat up more in the driver’s seat. Even money had a price as these fine leather seats were beckoning me to get comfortably numb and give in to sleep. I hit the automatic window button and the windows slid down in silence while the rising sun seemed to rise up with a vengeful scream. I fumbled in the center console for my black Raybans and veiled my aching eyes. Scotch did wonders for the night but never went down well with the day, like liquid migraine on a delay, I was wishing I was still drunk or immune to pain.
Just a few hours until Winnipeg and that meant a journey’s end, a soft hotel bed, waking up with clothes on at four in the afternoon and a countdown until I out-wrestle, outwork and outright dismantle two men who are simply out of their depths. There’s nothing sadder than observing someone preparing for something that they can’t possibly predict or comprehend. With others there is a wrestling match and at worst, a chair shot or a handful of tights. With me, a man would beg me to cheat, to make the loss quick and cheap, like their honor, but I will grab a hold and work a body part, see that man praying for the Second Coming or something equally as miraculous and grand, like me letting up and simply going for a pin. No, I get my satisfaction by breaking a man down, exposing his inferior abilities and then making him pay through pain, through gritted teeth. Confluence will resemble more of a black parade than a comeback. A comeback? I’ve been breaking wills and necks for twenty years. A loss never did anything but strengthen my resolve, focus my training even more and make damn sure it didn’t happen again.
RIIIIING
I jerked from somewhere between awake and sleep, pulling my car out of the path of the guardrail of the other lane and back into my own. My heartbeat barely accelerated, but I laid the pedal down, as if increased speed would fix everything. Buried compass but I was only chasing safety, no matter what it seemed.
RIIIIING
I pushed a button on the controls of the steering wheel.
“Twenty-three minutes.”
There was a moment of staticed silence before Pete responded, the nervousness in his voice palpable.
“I don’t understand.”
“It took you twenty-three minutes to return my call, Peter. That’s unacceptable.”
He clears his throat and the sound of papers shuffling can be faintly heard.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Casey. My battery died. I mean, it stopped working. I had to run six blocks to the AT&T store to buy another.”
His breathing was still heavy from his run. I appreciated his effort but I had long ago lost patience for, well, everything.
“First of all, you need to get into better shape. You sound more like you just ran sixty blocks. Secondly, when I hang up, I want you to run back to the AT&T store and buy two more batteries, charge them and keep them with you at all times. I don’t want this to happen again, Peter. Understood?”
He sighs, some weird relief that he has become accustomed to while working for me.
“I understand, Mr. Casey.”
I tape my right ring finger impatiently on the steering wheel while at the same time enjoying the cool morning air.
“Well, get on with it.”
The sound of paper shuffling intensifies before ending abruptly.
“Right then. Did you get the file I sent over of Danny Young’s promo?”
I rolled my eyes, remembering the drollery of it all.
“I did. That’s the one with the guy in the wheelchair, right?”
“Yes. That’s the man who trained Mr. Young.”
I stopped the tapping of my ring finger.
“Peter, don’t call others by the title of Mister, especially Danny Young. It makes every time you call me Mr. Casey seem less special.”
I can almost hear his smile across the frequency.
“Yes, Mr. Casey.”
“So, we know know he has a lot of tattoos, a lot of MMA experience and no respect for the man who trained him. Anything else?”
There is a slight shuffle of papers heard.
“He’s from England but lives in Japan.”
I nodded to myself.
“He did some training and competing there, right?”
“Yeah. To be honest, there wasn’t much else I could find on him.”
“I feel that has more to do with the dullery of Danny Young’s life and career than your lack of effort.”
“Thank you.”
I yawned, covering my mouth with my left forearm.
“I bet you’re ready for some shut-eye.”
I shook my head.
“Peter, don’t talk personally to me and try to never use the phrase, ‘shut-eye’ with me again.”
Now his frown was nearly heard.
“Sorry, Mr. Casey.”
“Peter, do you know why I hired you as my agent?”
“No.”
“Me either.”
I pressed a button on the steering wheel and ended the call, chuckling to myself as I took another sip of the coffee I bought from the cute redhead behind the Starbucks counter. Winnipeg, fifteen miles. I couldn’t wait for my hotel bed. I couldn’t wait to wake and train. I couldn’t wait to beat some respect into Danny Young. Darkly, I’d dream, of monsters and abstract atmospheres. The monsters would come for my head but never leave, fallen, broken at my feet. I’d give them names. Names of my enemies.
Write Me Off
The room buzzed from too many fluorescent lights, lined up like coffins covered in American flags with misplaced pride. I winced and my eyes squinted, even as they lay dropped and concealed behind impossibly black sunglasses. The room could have been any room, anywhere in the world, if not for the WFWF Confluence banner hanging from the foldout table with the white, sterile plastic top. Frank Lynn stood like a mountain few had managed to climb and survive to tell the story of their attempt. He and Joe Bishop were fighting for a Revolution in the WFWF, but in just a few days they would be fighting each other. I couldn’t help but wonder what that might do to their partnership, to the Revolution and to their own lives. I couldn’t quite put a finger down on why I paid it any mind. They stood for wrestling and maybe that was enough.
There were a couple dozen generously padded hotel chairs bathed in unnatural light, nearly all of them occupied by writers, bloggers and a fan or two who spun a good enough yarn to convince security to let them by. They have tired eyes, some from a long day or press for the upcoming event and others from the strain of worshipping their cellular phone God. I adjusted the black flat cap that a good girl in Ireland gave me before it all went bad. I never washed it so as not to wash away her perfume. It smelled of apricots and three day old dried blood. She treated me nice and I treated her to a show, and when the last footlight was kicked out and I could no longer see the lines written on my wrist, I gave her a real encore and more.
I sat down behind the table and slid the microphone on a small stand closer to me. If I had a thousand years to sit and think, I don’t believe I could imagine another place I would rather not be than here and now.
“Good to see you all back. We know these are long days and on behalf of the WFWF, I want to thank you for your patience and passion. As our last press conference, we are excited and proud to bring you the hottest former free agent in professional wrestling, “The Violent Gentleman” Sean Casey!”
I had only now noticed WFWF announcer, Daniel Knight, who seemed to have an otherworldly enthusiasm and spark in his eye. He gave me an annoying, yet earnest thumbs up and took a seat near the door and to the right of me. A middle-aged man in a grey sportcoat with the elbows well worn raised his hand, clutching a Moleskine and a pen that had been slowly leaking onto his right hand and down his wrist. I nodded toward him.
“Jack Spears, SportofKings.com. I’ll get right to it and ask you the unpopular question: You lost your first match in the WFWF. Now, it was your first match and it was against the current World Heavyweight champion, Joe Bishop, but it couldn’t have been what you were hoping for on your debut. What does that loss mean and where do you go from here?”
I leaned in a few inches, closing the distances to the microphone even more.
“I appreciate your candor, Jack. Anyone truly invested and who is passionate about this sport will be disappointed in a loss, especially a debut, as it makes a bad impression and for a lesser man could be a hole that can never be dug out of. But I am not that lesser man. Despite my loss to Joe Bishop, I am still the greatest professional wrestler on the Earth today. The competition is high here in the WFWF, which was the biggest deciding factor in me signing a contract. At Confluence, I’m going to dismantle Danny Young and Vass. I’m going to embarrass them. I’m going to hurt them. And then, when I haver had my fill of violence, I will pin them to the mat or make them tap it.”
Jack gives an impressed look as he scribbles on his pad. A young girl raises her left hand, a shiny new iPhone in her palm. Her t-shirt has something ironic written on it that I can’t begin to bring myself to finish reading and her jeans are painted on with manufactured wear sewn in. I hated her immediately, but gave her a nod just the same.
“Hi Sean.”
Her delivery is bubbly and no less lacking conviction or substance. I continue to stare at her as she wilts a little, looking down at her cell phone.
“Um, so, the rumor is that the WFWF gave you the largest contract for an indy performer in their history. Can you confirm this?”
“A performer? I’m a professional wrestler, not a
ing actor in a play.”She gives a nervous smile before looking down again to her cell phone.
“Sorry. But your contract, can yo--”
“You want to know how much money I make?”
She looked up, her eyes wide and hopeful.
“A lot. Now get the f*ck out of here.”
I pointed toward the door as she frantically gathered her cell phone and purse and stomped out in a huff.
“Neither Mr. Casey or the WFWF will be commenting on the financial aspects of our wrestler’s contracts.”
Daniel Knight gives a smile to the crowd and a nod to me.
“This year marks your twentieth year in professional wrestling. While you may have only now made it to a stage as large and viewed as the WFWF, your career has been nothing short of hall of fame worthy. When do you plan to retire?"
The question comes from a thirty-something man in the back. He’s wearing a Drakz t-shirt and has entirely too much gel in his hair.
“Me, retire? I’m in my prime.”
I give a hint of a grin as a smattering of good-natured laughter comes from the crowd.
“I’m in better condition than I was at twenty-five. I can wrestle an hour and never take a deep breath. My mind is sharp and my desire and passion have reached a fever pitch. People hear that I’ve wrestled for twenty years and their first thought is when I will retire. What they need to realize is all that means is I have twenty years of experience and that makes me dangerous to anyone standing across the ring from me. I’m thirty-seven, not seventy-three.”
Another bout of warm laughter envelops the crowd. A middle-aged man with unnaturally black hair stands up from the center of the room.
“Thanks for doing this, Sean. Looking toward Confluence and your triple threat match against Vass and Danny Young, I wanted your thoughts on these men.”
I scratched my thick beard with my right hand before resting it on the body of the microphone.
“Danny Young, now there’s a guy on in years that you should ask about retiring. He’s an MMA fighter pretending to be a professional wrestler. He’s the new flavor of the moment. When I was starting out, it was football players who thought they could play dress-up and hang with the best this sport had to offer. Turned out they didn’t know a wristlock from a wristwatch and a three-point-stance and a name in football only went so far. Before that, it was bodybuilders. Gassed-up, olive-tanned meatheads who tried to trick promoters and fans alike into believing that a muscled physique meant toughness instead of just a temporary veneer of realism.”
I pulled the microphone from it’s holder and stood up, bringing it near my mouth.
“Now it’s cool to be an MMA fighter and when that doesn’t work out the way you hoped, you do what Danny Young has done and cross over to professional wrestling. There is only enough room in this sport for the real mccoy. We don’t need people like Young coming in for a payday and a chance to make a name for himself. Do you know what my plan b was if wrestling didn’t work out?”
I brought my left hand to my face and quickly pulled off my sunglasses, straining my eyes against the want to squint. I tossed the sunglasses onto the table in front of me.
“Nothing, because there never was a plan b for me. Professional wrestling has been in my heart, my blood and in my every passing thought since I can remember. The people who become great in this sport are not people who had a plan b. This sport chooses you, you don’t choose it, and I’ll be damned if Danny Young is going to walk into the WFWF and try to make a dollar or a name off of me. Frankly, after our match at Confluence, I’ll be damned if he’ll still be able to walk.”
I loosened my black tie, the emotion of the moment and the body heat in the room becoming too much.
“You don’t have any respect, Danny. Not for this sport, not for yourself and not even for the man who trained you. And I’m not going to waste my time trying to teach you respect. It simply doesn’t interest me. What does interest me is hurting you and I will hurt you, Danny. I’ll hurt you and then you can crawl out of the WFWF and make way for the next wave of pretenders so I can hurt them, too.”
The crowd is focused in, many hurriedly writing or typing on their respective pads, phones or laptops. My blood is pulsing now, though my breathing is slow and steady. I feel awake at my own funeral and with no plans on stopping the preacher’s delivery.
“This other guy is a bit of a mystery. Vass, The Slayer. Sounds like some wannabe vampire who has watched a few too many Blade movies and lost the plot a long time ago. What I do know is that Vass has been around the WFWF for a while, coming and going like a passing Summer’s breeze and delivering the same lasting impact. How am I supposed to take you seriously when you can’t commit to the WFWF? Anyone can pop in and pick up a win or raise a few eyebrows, just ask Joe Bishop. Consistency determines greatness. This is a marathon, not a sprint and you can’t even decide if you want to run at all.”
I picked my sunglasses off of the table and placed them back over my eyes and then tightened and straightened my tie.
“From the WFWF World Heavyweight champion to two
ing goofs. The things I do for the sport I love.”I set the microphone down on the table and walk to the door. Daniel Knight stands and opens the door, reverence and cheer in his eyes. I stop at the doorway and turn back to the crowd, some of whom have stood up, gathering their things.
“At Confluence, I’m going to make believers out of the pretenders and doubters alike. I promise you that.”
I turned and left the room, a cacophony of whispers and shuffling feet playing me out.
Last Chance to Lose Your Keys
“Last call for alcohol. No double or triple orders. One more beer, shot or cocktail and that’s it.”
I sat up a little in my corner booth and tipped my short glass back, swallowing the small mixture of Jack Daniels and water, crunching on the two remaining marble-sized pieces of ice. My entire body was warm and rippling with comfort like a pond receiving the beginning drops of an easy rain.
A waitress in her early twenties walked up to my booth and smiled. She had dark violet hair, cut short like a pixie and she was dressed like nineteen-fifty in a red tea length dress with black skulls peppered all over. Her lips were bright red like blood from an internal source and they would glisten if not for the dim lighting in the bar.
“Last call, preacher. Another Jack on the rocks?”
I rubbed my left eye underneath my black sunglasses before giving her my clear attention.
“Preacher?”
She smiled, a little bit of a rattlesnake around the cheeks.
“Oh, that’s what everyone at the bar has been calling you all night.”
“Do you get many clergymen in here?”
She placed her hands on her hips, showing that her dress wasn’t over exaggerating her ample curves.
“Not like a real preacher, the comic book. I think it’s a show now, too.”
I looked up thoughtfully before returning my eyes to hers.
“Never heard of it, but I feel confident in assuming it’s about a preacher.”
She smiled again, this time her eyes lighting up as she sat down in the seat across from me.
“So, his dad was a preacher in this little town and expected him to follow in his shoes, but he ends up becoming a criminal. Stealing, killing, the whole thing. His dad dies and he gives up his life of crime and comes back to the town and becomes the preacher, but it’s not that simple, you know? It’s hard to change so dramatically, to fight off your demons. There’s more to it, but I don’t want to ruin it for you.”
She finishes her pitch and starts to blush.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ramble on about it. I just really like it. I guess I want you to like it, too. Are you like that? When you like something, I mean, really, really like something, don’t you want everyone else to like it, too?”
I leaned in over the table as her eyes grew wider.
“No. When I find something I really, really like, I keep it like a secret, like an oath. I don’t want anyone else to have it. Bands, books, movies...I take them like lovers. I wouldn’t share my favorite band any more than I would let my Wife spend a night with another man.”
She sits back in the booth and lets out a long sigh and nods her head slowly.
“I’ve never thought of it that way before. You’re pretty intense.”
I chuckled.
“Yeah. I’ve been told that before.”
“Alright folks, you don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here.”
She threw her head back and let out a little growl.
“crap. I talked your ear off and made you miss last call.”
I stood up from the booth and fastened a button on my black suit jacket and pulled on the cuffs of my black dress shirt.
“That’s alright. I kind of made a promise that I would take it easy on the bottle from here out.”
She stands up as well, her black, glossy high heels catching my eye.
“We could go to my apartment. I have Sprite, apple juice and a bottle of Jameson, if you change your mind about a drink.”
She gives a nervous but proud smile before diverting her gaze to the floor, like she had dared herself to invite me to her place and was pleasantly surprised that she went through with it.
“I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”
Her eyes met mine and her smiled fell.
“Oh...okay.”
I raised my hands in front of my chest.
“Not like that. Listen, you’re beautiful and seem like an interesting person.”
She cut me off, shifting in her heels.
“You don’t have to say that. It’s okay. You don’t owe me anything.”
I dropped my hands and let out a short sigh.
“No, I don’t. You don’t know me, but if you did, you would know that if I didn’t like you, I would have cut you off in the middle of that Preacher story and told you to write it on your Tumblr and go get me a drink.”
Her eyebrows raised and half of her smile returned.
“Wow. You’re kind of an a**hole.”
I grinned.
“No, I’m not kind of an a**hole, I am an a**hole.”
She laughed, exposing her ivory teeth and deep dimples in her cheeks. I ran my right hand through my hair before returning it to my side.
“I’m a lot like that Preacher you talked about. I mean, I haven’t robbed a bank or killed anyone. I did steal a police car when I was fourteen and I have a bit of a reputation when it comes to fighting.”
She gave an impressed, if not surprised look.
“On second thought, I’m probably not very much like that Preacher at all. I don’t even believe in God. I drink too much, I beat people up for a living...I’m not a good person, and you seem like a probably are. I guess I don’t want to chance poisoning that.”
She took everything I said in for a moment before reaching out with her right hand and taking mine in hers.
“I’ll take my chances.”
She guided me across the wooden, beer soaked floor and out into the early morning moonlight.
Choices
A three-piece suit sure makes for a sharp look, but has its disadvantages if you plan on making an early morning getaway. I had just finished the last button on my black vest when her voice caught me off guard, more like finding a twenty in your old jacket than a birthday party you did not want to be party to.
“Sneaking off, eh?”
I picked up my black suit jacket from a white wicker chair near the bed before turning to her. Her dark violet hair was somehow still pristine after a night’s sleep, well, a night of talking, Sprite and hushed laughter followed by an hour or two of sleep. She was wearing a grey Nirvana shirt that was two sizes too big. She said she bought it as a sleep shirt so fifteen year old kids wouldn’t stop her and remark how much they love “Smells Like Teen Spirit”. She sat up in bed as I turned to her.
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
She yawned, covering her mouth with her right hand.
“That’s sweet of you, or a lie.”
I pulled my suit jacket on and buttoned it once before reaching into the inside breast pocket and retrieved my black sunglasses. I slid them on as I considered her position.
“I’m an amalgamation of terrible things, but I can promise you that lying is not one of them.”
She seemed to drop her guard and smiled as she slid back down on the bed and pulled the white down comforter up to her neck.
“Can you promise that I’ll see you again?”
I ran my right hand through my black hair a few times, pushing it back and out of my eyes.
“God willing and the creek don’t rise.”
She gave me a curious look.
“But you don’t believe in God.”
I turned and headed for the door.
“A lot of people don’t believe in me, but I’m still here.”
I pulled the door shut behind me as her voice slid beneath the doorway.
“I believe in you.”
I was no God, but on occasion I had been accused of having the Devil raging inside of me.
We Came for the Vampires and Stayed for the Sunrise
The morning was alive but sleeping soundly as I tread across the city at a steady pace. My black muscle shirt hid the evidence of a ten mile run coming to an end as I rounded the back of my hotel and slowed to a jog and then a walk. I approached a metal bench with dark blue rubber coating and took a seat. I felt like I could have ran another ten miles, more for the excuse to get lost, both in mind and body, than to increase my already renowned cardio. I leaned back, letting my arms rest on the back of the bench and stretching my legs out in front of me.
Tomorrow night is Confluence. Everywhere I look or bent an ear, people were suddenly questioning me. My regular fans and critics wondered if I had been blinded by the limelight and had become a small fish in an ocean instead of a big fish in a small pond. Maybe the WFWF was simply on another level, a level that I just couldn’t reach.
Then there was the WFWF audience, three-quarters of which had no idea who I was but knew of the hype that followed me into the company. Imagine the audacity of this new guy challenging Joe Bishop, the WFWF Heavyweight champion, on his first night in. And then to lose? Looks like another flash in the pan, if that.
To those who didn’t know anything about me, other than some hype, I can’t blame them for doubting me. You can only ask for someone to give you an opportunity and judge you based off of their first-hand experience, and by those standards, I did not live up to the hype, let alone exceed it.
For the diehards, fans and detractors alike, I’m disappointed in you. You’ve seen me lose before. Those losses may have been few and far in between, but they happened all the same. But over the last twenty years, and especially in the last ten, I dare you to name a better wrestler than me. Go ahead, throw out names like Trace Demon, Drakz or even Joe Bishop and Frank Lynn. Go ahead, I could use the laugh. I’m not here to dress them down or posture as if they are inferior wrestlers, in fact, they’re all very good. And that’s fine, if we allow ourselves to settle for good instead of demanding greatness. Demanding the best. I am the best. I am a lethal technician, a meticulous striker and a man obsessed with being the very best wrestler to have ever lived.
Come one and all, lovers and haters, enemies and friends, doubters and believers. Gather ‘round to see me rise, on the shoulders of greatness or on a crucifix to die. Let my name linger on your lips and poison your minds, not realizing that I don’t care what you think or say, as long as I have your attention.
Choose to believe that I can’t compete on the grandest stage of them all or that I can’t possibly live up to the praise that illuminated my path to the WFWF like a lantern fueled by dedication and passion combined. Your doubt will only make my ascent that much more gratifying, and when I reach the top and that WFWF Heavyweight championship is strapped around my waist, you will have to accept your fate. Whether you believe in the God of Wrestling doesn’t bring me in or out of existence, it just determines if my time here will be Heaven or Hell for you.
Joe Bishop and Frank Lynn can have their Revolution. I’m the Revelation. I have broken the first seal and the scroll reads two names: Vass, The Slayer and Danny Young. You can’t stop the apocalypse or “The Violent Gentleman” in its wake.
Believe in me or don’t, it makes no nevermind. It will only determine if the violence I inflict on you is seen as an assault or a sacrifice.
