“Who are you again?” Hunter asked. The strange girl in her bloodsoaked nightgown tilted her head back, holding a wet cloth to her nose to stop the bleed. Xander had checked to see if their late night visitor had broken her nose by his punch but she hadn’t. At least, he didn’t think the nose was broken. Might had always been slightly crooked. Trying to touch anything on her led her to instantly giggle and complain how ticklish she was. So whatever damage he inflicted, she wasn’t showing any pain from it.
“She’s Dillusion’s disciple,” Xander answered for her.
“He’s number one, and I’m number doodoo!”
“And why did you come all the way out here, unannounced, in the middle of the night? If I had been a gun owner, I would have taken a shot,” Xander explained. Unspoken was the fortunate circumstance for Ducky that Xander wasn’t allowed to own any firearms. For a while, he had an unregistered handgun with a scratched off serial number; however, he had dumped the weapon in the ocean once he caught wind of his son’s legal troubles. Since then, he had also noted that it probably wouldn’t have been wise to keep a gun in a house that hosted two people battling mental illness.
“What’s so strange about that? GEEZE, you people are so uptight!”
“Some might have confused you for a ghost,” Hunter added. Xander refused to admit that for a tiny fraction of a second, he contemplated that possibility while trekking through the woods at night, chasing a white figure.
“You can’t shoot a ghost with regular bullets, you need to call the ghostbusters! DUH.”
“Are we really having this conversation?” Xander questioned aloud. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to massage out the headache. Hunter shook her head, not impressed with the woman. “Do you have a name? Dillusion did mentioned one of his students needed my help so your story checks out.”
“Nuh-huh!”
“What?”
“You need MY help!”
“I need your fucking help?” Confusion withered Xander’s face. She had to be Dillusion’s protege; she didn’t make any sense. She lacked logic and reason. No filter either, probably speaking whatever popped in her head, no matter how obviously stupid it might sound. Xander stared at her long and hard. Delusion seemed to be a common bedfellow for professional wrestlers. This chick definitely needed attention from mental health experts, maybe even a rubber room until they figured out her malfunction. The thing was, he connected with her on that level. Unlike her, he never had someone reach out to him and tried to help him through the madness. He had his grandfather for a handful of years, but his generation didn’t have a clue of how to approach mental illness. Their prescription consisted of smiling more. They told the unwell to suck it up, considering how others had far worse problems in third world countries. While he wouldn’t deny he benefited from the structure of his grandfather’s strict guardianship, at some point, he stopped growing and even formed a few deficiencies in the social skills department as an unfortunate side effect.
“I thought that was a statement, my bad! Of course, you need my help. Why else would I come here?”
“Dillusion definitely framed it the other way. Framed that you are some—” Xander sought for the right words.
She filled in the blank, “damsel in distress? Oh, Xandy, you’re such the toxic overmasculine type. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I find it cute when a guy tries to pretend he’s a knight in shining armor, but I get disappointed that your outfit doesn’t match your roleplay. At least you could buy a helmet and a sword!”
“And a horse. I bet she would even accept a pony,” Hunter humored this mad woman’s ramblings. Xander shot his life partner a questioning look. Did she really have to play along?
“Of course, ponies are totally acceptable as long as they have horns. Unicorns are the best! Fun fact: did you know about unicorn poop skittles?” She pointed towards her head in an attempt to prove that she’s smart. Xander started to wonder if her problem is more than simply insanity; she might have a handicap, autism or some sort of learning disability. That made it more pressing that someone took this poor girl under their wing and showed them the ropes so they don’t get eaten alive by the competition and by the strenuous demands that a professional wrestler was subjected to. If you were needy and lacked a support structure, a wrestler could turn into a real life monster.
“You still haven’t introduced yourself.”
“Oh! Yes, I did it!”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Then guess!”
“I have no idea.”
“I won’t tell you if you don’t at least guess.”
“Ashley?” Xander thought up the most basic white girl name imaginable.
“COLD!”
“I’m not playing this game.”
“EVEN COLDER!”
“In a minute, I’m going to take you under my arm and boot your ass out the front door. Just tell me your name already,” Xander growled. The girl erupted in a fit of giggles before placing her hand, sucking in air, pretending to be suddenly scared of Xander’s temper. Xander recognized mockery. He turned away, trying to hide the irritation expressed on his face. Would he be much help if he can’t stomach this level of annoyance? He only knew her for ten minutes and already wanted to run for the hills.
“Fine. Since you’re starting to cry over spilled glitter, I’ll tell you. My name’s Ducky. That’s D-U-C-K? Yes! K-Y! Like the jelly Wally buys for our special snuggles,” Ducky conceded. Her tongue flopped out while she watched his reaction. Did she expect a laughter reel to go off? He didn’t really appreciate her attempt at doing stand up. “Please laugh now.”
No one laughed except for Ducky.
“See, there is so much I can teach you, Xandypie. So much more! I can teach you how to live! How to love! And most importantly how to laugh away all this existential dread you have bottled up in ya!” Ducky explained. She really had no idea why Dillusion sent her to him. She thought Dillusion wanted HER to help HIM out. Not the other way around. Dillusion knew he needed to get this duckling into tip-top shape before her professional wrestling debut. That meant tapping into his own past, using all those challenging routines that you would have expected to find in a Rocky movie than real life; but what can he say, there was relaxing punching stabs of meat strung up on a hook with your bare fists.
“Listen, Ducky. I’m pretty sure you are confused why Dillusion sent you to me. He used to look up to me. When we ran together, I was the leader.”
“No one outpizzas the Dilly! He’s the master. And I’m mastering being a master.”
“I was your master’s master.”
“So you’re Yoda? Aren’t you a little short for Yoda?” Ducky stared at him, deadpan expression, distrusting eyes. He groaned. This woman seemed to communicate through pop culture references, which has been documented as a blind spot for Xander. How to get through to her? He needed a different approach.
“Listen, if you want to train with me. We can train. Maybe we can learn from each other. I’ve been told that sometimes you can learn a little bit more by teaching another,” Xander said. Ducky turned her head as if an imaginary hand jerked her chin. A wide Cheshire grin appeared on her face.
“Of course! Of course! Yeah, let’s ‘TRAIN TOGETHER’. Wink, wink. Nudge nudge,” Ducky said that while looking at Hunter. Hunter cracked a smile, finding humor how off balance this girl has gotten the big mean Xander Valentine. “But I will let you know, I already scouted out the perfect training grounds for us. Let’s go there!”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? This ain’t no time to be slacking, silly. We have to get going while the popcorn’s still hot!”
“I need sleep. I’ll put you up in the spare room for the night. Hunter, would you mind?” Xander dropped down onto the recliner. He held a hand on his head. He imagined this would have been what it must have been like if he had been present for his children’s middling years. Loud, obnoxious, completely irrational and oblivious to the world and how it operated.
He had a lot of work ahead of him. He felt certain of that.
———–
Vengeance is a powerful motivator. The sting of conceived justice is a cattle prod that moves men forward. The sense of victimhood is the singe on the flesh, the burn, one ingredient in this dark brew that are my emotions. I hate feeling like I’ve been victimized. It’s a foreign entity in my self-image, an unwelcome invader that has marched deep into the territory that is my consciousness. That invader has a face. That face is James Evans. He’s smiling now, despite having hidden for the past four months, licking his wounds that I inflicted upon him. He finally mustered up the courage to attempt to come back, test fate, to test my justice. I don’t believe I see another day where I don’t harbor resentment towards the man. I hope now that he shares that same sentiment towards me.
But he’s not the only target of my ire. I resent the company as much as I resent him. They’re the enablers. While I’ve been suspended, fired, and even humiliated for transgressions; regardless while those punishments are just and were well-deserved, it seems that SCW is foreign to the concept of consistency. Shocking, isn’t it? Another corporation that lacks integrity and is concerned with only the bottom line. Why have I been singled out? Why have I been deprived of opportunities? Don’t confuse this as meager whining. I’ve defeated the top names in the business, and that’s not recent. I’ve earned the right to get the first shot at James. I earned the right for another opportunity at the SCW World Championship. Frustrated, drowning in jealousy, I watch as lesser men and women get promoted, elevated, and rewarded for merocity. Is it because I don’t kiss the anus of the devil, Mr. D himself. Do the rest? Why am I targeted? This isn’t run of the mill paranoia. This is a legitimate inquiry. Regardless, I’m going to make things right.
My opportunities have to be earned and then some. That’s okay, I’m not afraid of the challenge. Let them be afraid of my abilities. I know the fans can see through this shit. Despite a great showing of resilience, Selena Frost buckled underneath my siege. She needed a handicap to get her last laugh. I can live with that ending, knowing that she needed help to finally get over me. And I would understand if this had been a development that came to fruition only after I seriously injured Regan Street and James Evans, but this has been the case for thirteen years now. The burden of proof required for my case has been set extremely high. They don’t want me to be the face of this company again so the brass ring was raised higher and higher, the goal line moved further and further, regardless of how many upcoming stars, hall of famers, former world champions I have to put down. I ran the gauntlet before to win a shot at the US Championship but I had to wait months for my shot. When it was given, I took it, and held the US Championship for over six months. Most others would be in the conversation for the main event stage and the World Championship, but that never materialized. And now I have to be told, wait your turn. I am owed a rematch. SCW owes me my right to exercise vengeance.
I’m not going to wait. I’m going to take my cut.
Now I have to take drastic measures to keep my sanity, my anger in check. I have a tough ask ahead of me. To get to the SCW World Championship or to get to James Evans, I have to run this gauntlet called the Trios Tournament. I have to tear down the walls I’ve built around me, pave over past animosity to team with a former rival and I guess dance with an entity of chaos. But I’m not intimidated by the climb ahead. I’m not scared of the obstacles in my way. They have faces. They have their own motivations, be it greed or ambition, they too step up to the plate, planning on winning this homerun derby. But we all know that I’m a heavy hitter. Plus I find solace in my partners, Gavin and Ducky,and the fact that they too have motivation to catch lightning in the bottle. The holders of the contract are rewarded with godlike powers in SCW. And for me to overcome and manifest my destiny, then I’m not afraid. If I have to do more to get my due, then I will. But don’t blame me when my hunger is insatiable and your chosen ones are devoured.
This week, I’ll put context to these names, and put a frame of reference to manufactured reputations . Our sport is a fan of hyperboles. I hear the announcers building false prophets up as messiahs. I’ve been told that Minvera was the hottest free agent signing in the past ten years, since maybe even Shawn Winters. That her work elsewhere made every online forum question when she finally gonna get her chance in the big leagues. Chris Cannon struggled with her, that is a testament to her tenacity and skill but I find it a little hard to swallow this concept that she is a trailblazer, a globetrotter, the next big thing with so few years of experience. Yes, the shewolf knows how to go for the throat. But there are many more vicious beasts in the woods, myself included, that know violence. She’s a novice. I’m an expert. Yet she’s thrust onto a higher pedestal, despite breaking rules and injuring stars, and then gets her face plastered on the poster. Fuck that. This week, I’m making her earn her due, I’ll make her realize that she isn’t special. She’s going to have to work and that there’s a long journey ahead of her. The honeymoon’s bye bye bye, my darling.
Then we have an oversized man, trying to bully much smaller opponents, thinking he’s a real badass. Tsunami conjures up the image of a fat man doing a cannonball into the swimming pool, washing away all the poor little kiddies. I’ve seen his tape. He’s strong all right. He’s a big man all right. A giant among men. But he hasn’t met me, because I don’t get pushed around. You might toss your weight around, but you don’t know what power really is. You are licking your chops, you’re wanting to prove yourself against me more than any of my partners. I get that. That’s admirable. Shows initiative, but it’s a pipe dream being fueled by daddy’s little sweetnothings that are whispered in your ears. You’re not your own man. You’re a child in big boy pants. Time to grow up and realize that you’re going to have to grind before you’re given your due. Don’t tell me you filled out on those before this match, those appetizers, because this is the main course and you got a lot more to go through. Let’s see if you can stomach what I bring to the plate, bub.
So we have two young souls, foaming at the mouth, salivating over this huge opportunity that the Trios Tournament offers. And there’s nothing wrong with that. But the luck of the draw isn’t so nice to them as the commentators, as the yes-men, as the corporate shills are. But there is a man that has flown higher than most have, a man that captured the sun but Shilo might have laughed his last laugh. I feel his struggle, I really do. When you’re on the top, when you’re so dominant, you take your throne for granted. Then time moves on, circumstances lead to your downfall, and you’re trying desperately to regain lost ground. Let me tell you, from one vet to another, it takes a lot more than cleaning the clown paint off your face to get back. You have to look inside, tear yourself apart and rebuild anew. And even then, it might not be enough in this ever evolving, ever competitive sport that is professional wrestling. That’s the reality we have to face.
Unlike our partners, we know. You and I see this, not only as an opportunity, but perhaps our last chance. And whether we like to admit it or not, we’re desperate. Our faces might be straight, but there’s a sense of urgency under that stoic facade. Trios Tournament will grant us another lease on our careers. And if we do survive, if we do get that golden ticket, then maybe we can finally get back to the promised land. We would have gone through the gauntlet, beat the hungry and the young, giving us the right to lay claim on whatever next. Are you up for that, Shilo? Are you ready to battle for your existence? I am. They haven’t left me any other choice but to fight. To conquer. To devour.
And if I don’t gnaw a hole right through the competition, if I’m not tough enough, not skilled enough, then maybe it’s time for me to call it a career and fade to balck— but fuck that, I have never been one to roll over, accept defeat like that. I keep coming at you until I grind you into the earth and this tournament will be no different, regardless of those they put before me and my partners.
My will. My way.
Executioner's Plight 