Love Is Gone

The pit of failure can be a difficult beast to conquer. For all the speeches you hear these days about failure being an opportunity for growth, as you fall deeper and deeper into the inky black void, it doesn’t tend to occur to you that all you need is to look for opportunities to expand your thinking. There’s not much that occurs to you at all, beyond “where did the light go, I swear there was light there a few seconds ago” and “does this thing have a bottom?”

People love to give pep talks, wrap their arms around you, reassure you that there’s a way back out of the hole, that if you put your mind to it, you can always find the light. It’s probably why PRIME Wrestling is such fertile ground for a variety of religious cult experiences. Old gods, new gods, gods that do not yet exist, all waiting to get their grubby paws on anyone looking for that classic beast of “growth”.

These preachers, these speechers, little whispers in the ear to try and corrupt a mind into a brand spanking new way of thinking. It doesn’t matter the goal, more money for a church, an opportunity to manipulate and control another human..

See, there’s a ridiculous notion that as you fall, you’re always seeking a return to the light, that if you don’t, rock bottom awaits.

What’s under rock bottom? Surely if there is ground, you can dig and if you keep digging, you end up somewhere.

Maybe the solution wasn’t to throw a rope, pray with hope and start the climb.

Maybe the solution was to keep digging.

Maybe the solution was to find the universe under. A new way of thinking, a new approach. To embrace the fall and seek to go further.

Cecilworth Farthington was at a career low point, but he did not plan to seek a life raft, he did not want to return to the dissipating light.

He wanted to meet the devil himself and keep on digging.

—

“Eurrmfph”

The less than dulcet tones of the former PRIME Five Star champion don’t seem to bother many of the passers by in the Barclays Center as they look at the heap of Wrestle Buddies engulfing the man known as Cecilworth Farthington. The Lord of Farthington Manor was slowly stirring back to… well… at least a grey-out situation. The first attempt at communicating with the world he now found himself in was slightly muffled by the plush of Brandon Youngblood that was currently contained in his mouth.

His eyes felt incredibly dry and he tried to blink himself into reality, surveying the makeshift shelter that he found himself in. The show had been over for quite some time, and the last of the crowd were making their gradual exit, likely trying to wait out the initial travel rush, or perhaps they were still hyped from the massive Universal Championship change that had happened some time ago. It was one of the two. How long ago did that match even happen? An hour? Two? Cecilworth definitely wasn’t the man to know. It was already highly unlikely that he even knew what had happened to his brother in glue, FLAMBERGE. The last thing he could recall was the delicious taste of coffee alcohol as he chilled in “The Glest”, trying to forget about that whole Almasy and Rob Williams business of the past few shows.

As Cecilworth rolled over in the pile of stuffed goodies, he tried to think back to what would have even brought him to such a situation. He could hear the murmurs of passers by, “poor guy” and “he’s probably fine” being the two most common comments.

“Brmaaam”

He wasn’t enjoying the taste of Youngblood, but his arms were currently traveling back from another dimension, so they were a little loosey goosey and weren’t moving in the way that the Almasy finalist had hoped. His very dry tongue was slowly trying to push the head of Youngblood out and it had reached the halfway point, which Farthington was very proud of. As he tried to push the cotton crammed former Universal Champion away from his mouth hole, Farthington started to vaguely remember talking to Anna Daniels.

“What did I say? I hope it wasn’t anything stupid!” was the first thought in his mind, rapidly followed by “oh god, it probably was”. The second thought to occur to Farthington was the realisation that given it happened during show time, there was a high statistical probability that whatever he had done was live on camera for everyone to watch.

He could go back and watch the mess he made.

The realisation that whatever drunk mess he had found himself in would likely be forever available on demand for a nominal subscription fee hurt. Meanwhile, youngblood finally escaped the maw of Farthington as the overwhelming hangiexty started to kick in. As the panic and terror of his potential activities during ReVival 43 sunk in, all he could manage was to yell the sacred words of his people.

“Fuck!”

The pained yell of Farthington disturbed a father and his two sons who had not noticed the fort of the former Five Star Champ on their exit from the Barclays Centre. They may not have noticed him straight away but they certainly noticed him now. The father quickly ushered his sons out of the building, saying something along the lines of “this is why we’re Jared Sykes people'' as the family skeedaddled away from the human mess.

“Maybe this was all a bad dream?” Cecilworth thought to himself as he rolled over to his side and closed his eyes again. “Five more minutes” he murmured like a teen not wanting to get out of bed on school day. Farthington curled himself up in a ball and hoped that the bad feelings would simply float away.

Bzzzt

The vibration felt next to his leg ended up micro-nap within seconds, his sticky eyes opened once more, he had just enough energy to reach out and grab his phone.

One new message from Dirk Dickwood.

“Despite what you did to him, Phil is very willing to hear you out. He feels you both need to get on the same page, especially considering what happened tonight”

Cecilworth scrunched his face in terror, already reluctant to scroll up and see what Dirk was replying to. He didn’t need to scroll up, he already knew what he must have done.

“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!”

Thankfully, this time, there was no family to scare.

—

“WHERE IS THAT LITTLE SHITEHAWK!?”

The reverberating voice of the founder of The Glue Factory, Phil Atken, echoed down the stony corridors of Farthington Manor, at a volume level that may even have shocked The Minotaur who definitely still roams the hedge maze of the grounds.

Sitting (because what else is he going to do? stand?) at the top of the table in the grand manor’s study, a displeased Atken stared at his watch while wildly gesticulating to his closest ally in all things glue, Dirk Dickwood. Dirk, for his part, also looked incredibly frustrated by this turn of events. A scowl that could melt tungsten was fixed up Atken’s face as he continued to rap-a-tap his toes in a manner most irritated.

“You told me he wanted to do some kind of “peace summit”?”

All Dirk could do was shrug his shoulders, doing his best to placate the rather angry wheelchair bound fella sitting to his left. Dirk looked around the room, as if Cecilworth was about to pop out of the ground. He’d already got the room ready for Cecilworth and Phil to talk for the first time since the unfortunate forking incident of 2023. The beautiful silverware of Farthington Manor had been securely stored in locked cabinets, all that sat upon the table now weere the finest biodegradable sporks that money could buy. After all, when was the last time you heard about someone getting maimed with cardboard?

“He messaged me and told me he was ready to talk…”, Dirk tried to state, but was quickly interrupted by the former PRIME Universal Champion. “Does that miserable little shite think we’re still doing this on his schedule? After JCH? After Rob Williams? AFTER JARED FUCKING SYKES? No, Dirk, this isn’t a polite little apology meeting, this is my coup. This is my return to the throne. His leadership has failed, and failed badly…”

Just before Phil could launch into a grand speech of the scale of fuck up that Cecilworth had become in recent weather, he was interrupted by the sound of clumping, uneven footsteps. The door to the study aggressively swung open by the hands of the Glue Factory’s heavy, and the world’s sweetest man, Hank. Hank wasn’t exactly alone, he had scooped up Cecilworth in a manner that had quite the resemblance of a scene from “Officer and a Gentleman”. Well, if you ignore the fact that Cecilworth’s eyeballs were spinning around and Hank’s shoes were covered in vomit.

Loses the touching element with that in mind.

Hank gently slumps his pal Cecilworth into a chair at the other side of Atken. Cecilworth, for his part, constantly tries to wave Hank off, insisting “I’m fine” over and over again. Hank does his best to care for Farthington, gesticulating towards Phil, as if requesting that he helps out a man who seems to be a little down on his luck at this moment. Atken instead opts for the option to slowly wheel himself out of the room.

The parting words from The Founder?  “We’ll talk when he’s actually fine” which was quickly followed by a “jesus christ, what a fucking mess.”

Dirk Dickwood, stuck between two close compatriots, can’t figure out how to navigate the current situation. All he can do is ask Hank to put on a pot of coffee. Upon hearing the word coffee, Cecilworth perks up a bit, sitting up in his seat. “Espresso martinis? I’ll take two”. He slumps back down, the energy levels already bled dry once more.

—

I don’t know why people are fussing over me, I’m fine. Totally and utterly fine. Bumps in the road are very natural in this profession and I think that I’m bearing up pretty well all things considered. The idea that I am in any way “off the rails” is the language of fools and foolish people. I’ve just been relieving a little stress and tension as of late. It was bad enough having the hopes and dreams of the entire wrestling community on my shoulders at Colossus, then you add the duties of the Five Star champion, the leader (probably) of The Glueminati and eeesh, that’s rough town city baby. 

As if that wasn’t enough, I got thrown the captaincy of a War Games team. 

Lotta responsibility on one man’s shoulders. You gotta find a healthy outlet for such things, and there’s nothing healthier than designer drugs and a lil cocktail, as a treat, to see you through the storm. 

My former love though, I guess she thought that I wasn’t handling the spotlight well. She decided to abandon me when I was so close to reaching the very pinnacle of my career. It was going to be beautiful in a way, magnificent, touching… to return to my home country, winner of the Almasy, the Five Star championship around my waist, marching down to the ring to battle my good, close, personal friend FLAMBERGE for wrestling’s greatest prize. 

Think of the tickets that would have sold, think of the atmosphere in the arena. The crowd would have been nothing but a wall of noise, so electric that you could have powered the entire of England off the vibes of that night alone for an entire year. 

My love had set up something very special and then she ripped it away from me. I could see it, I could taste it, I could feel it. It was inevitable, it was the universe tilting towards the side of wrestling, of purity in the grappling arts. A new era was to be dawned, not one of buffoons with their syphilitic hot tubs and cuckery, not one of men with dump trump asses, not one of Russian farce. No, PRIME was finally going to be moulded in a new image, a better image. An image where people would feel pride based on their in-ring successes, not how many cult members they had recruited this week.

She whispered to me that’s what she wanted, all I had to do was deliver the goods at Colossus. Yet, something happened, her eyes started to wander, she started to change her mind and in the moment that I needed her the most, she abandoned me. She let the hand of the referee slap the mat three times, she let Jonathan Christopher Hall, a man who I think just started to work out how to wrestle, humiliate me, mock me, best me. It was crushing, it was despair inducing, I just couldn’t make heads nor tails of it. My love didn’t stop it, she encouraged it, I’d go as far to say she enabled it. She let me fail in the biggest moment of my career.

It seems obvious now, it feels clear to me that as much as I believed I had the greatest love story in PRIME, she didn’t feel quite as strongly. Maybe she herself bought into the Hallmark marketing, letting a twinge of guilt get in the way of our passion. Maybe I was too pushy, maybe I tried to go too hard too fast and scared her off. I thought this was real, this was forever, this would be a love that truly endured. She… disagreed. 

I have to face up to some hard truths - wrestling never loved me, I was a side piece, a boy toy, a diversion, an amusement. Now that she has sucked me dry, I am left to fall. Failure isn’t enough for her spiteful nature though, she has gone one step further. Not satisfied was mere embarrassment, it has become clear that she wants to hurt me. Wrestling wants to scar me. The idea of a victory based on pure technical talent just wasn’t good enough for her. Trying to fight with grit and determination, that’s not for her, that’s for the birds. She’s made it clear she wants a clown car cavalcade of bullshit. 

Perhaps I could win her back, regain the affection lost. Do I even want to anymore? Do I want to keep up this fight? The struggle to get back to the very top, with the risk of saying the wrong thing and losing it all again. 

Even if she realised her mistake, could I love her back? After what she let happen?

Maybe it’s time to declare that love is dead. That love is gone. Maybe it’s the time to embrace the chaos of the new world.

Is it time to throw honour and dignity out of the window? To no longer refine my grappling skills but rather I should endeavour to embrace shortcuts? I have friends, quite a few in fact, is it time to let them get a little bit more involved in my contests? Let out the inner Jiles if you will. 

I’m a free man now. Nothing to tie me down. 

The very thought scares me. It should damn well scare the PRIME roster.

—

A slightly more sober (and we do mean slightly, like, “he’s not blackout yet” slightly) Cecilworth Farthington sits in front of his laptop in a small hotel room, currently in the middle of a Zoom call. As much as he’s found power in journaling, he’s never quite felt it appropriate to be verbally open with another human. That’s probably the many, many years of deep seated British repression instilled on him by the upper classes of the society he once found himself part of. Really hard to chisel through that granite.

As the week had progressed, he realised that in no way was he actually fine. Things had spiralled, they had spiralled badly, they had spiralled quickly and the guilt he was currently feeling that he was not there to support FLAMBERGE against Sykes made him realise that it was probably time to start addressing some of the issues.

However, as the conversation on the call moved forward beyond the surface of the current stress of The Glueminati, the subconscious issues started to bubble up. The pleasant lady on the other end of the call had been very patient with Cecilworth’s diversions and sidetracks, trying to find the avenue to dig deeper into what had been going on with the beautiful boy. When you feel like you’re facing the ramblings of a mad man, that can be a bit tricky to pin down.

“...and don’t even get me started on the fact they gave a contract to a man that I saw murdered, dead, no longer breathing. Max Kael is dead. Max Kael died years ago. The fact that the company has paid money to let a pretender mock my grief and suffering…”

On the other side of the Zoom, new questions arose. Is it just the ramblings of a man clearly addled at this very moment in time? Is there something deeper? She tried to stop Cecilworth and follow up.

“Okay, can you tell me more about about this Max Kael.”

Cecilworth sighed, “the real one or this fucking actor they let walk around the PRIME hallways with a god damn championship belt?”

A reassuring smile brought out the guidance, “the real one, the one you say you saw die.”

For the first moment in the call, Cecilworth actually stopped talking and  to gather his thoughts. He looked down at his feet, scrunching his eyes. His heart felt heavy. Was it the horsey drugs or emotional pain? Maybe a combination of both? All he can muster in the moment is a rather succinct answer.

“My best friend.”

—

I’m supposed to wrestle this week against Crash, it almost feels a bit like a sick joke. I don’t know why Lindsay Troy would do this to me. An absolute dunce who decided to suckle at the teat of the actor playing Max Kael. I thought that me and the company had a firm agreement that I was to have a very safe arms length against the man whose very existence has made a mockery of my dearly departed dependable pal. 

I guess that was maybe too big an ask, those spidery crawling fingers have managed to engulf the whole of the company. It almost feels like he’s doing it on purpose, this supposed Max Kael, trying to get in the middle of every single situation in PRIME in the hopes of initiating our first interaction.

I don’t want any part of it. I am not interested in The Herald shouting down my locker room door with a song and dance routine, I do not want to be ambushed for a piece of the news, I certainly don’t want to be doorstepped at Farthington Manor for some “investigative reporting”. Let me make it very clear I do not want to be involved. I have a minotaur and I am willing to use it.

This entire situation is nothing but disgusting disrespect for the dead and the fact so many in PRIME are willing to indulge with it, play with it, hell, fucking have fun with it… nothing is sacred any more. This company seems to have an abundance of the holy, yet none of them can seem to see the devil right in front of their eyes.

Crash - why? I mean that’s a very open question, I get it, I just need to ask it… why are you playing along? Why be a willing pawn? You know you're the patsy in a scam and yet you seem quite content to play along with the role. Sure, you get the eyeballs on television, but you get them as a figure to laugh at, to mock. Your role is the court jester and yet you seem rather happy to jingle your balls, dancing a merry jig to the tune of the imposter. 

The company forced my hands, I know that, I know at War Games I will be standing in the ring with a man whose very existence is a slap in my face. I know that he will be surrounded by his enablers. I need to take a little preventative action this time around. I need to learn from my Colossus hubris. I am not an infallible golden god, The Convoy taught me that to win in this environment, I need to reduce to potential hands at ringside. 

Crash, you seem like a nice enough fella, but you get to be the first to taste a new chaos. Unbound by dignity and respect, I will end this.

I need to make it clear what the future holds, Crash.

Sorry about your shitty undead ally.