Beyond the Brink

Ανεμος

Hey, Dad. It’s your boy, Kerry.

Guess it’s been a while since I’ve hit you up, huh?

Well, maybe not “you” in the conventional sense. More specifically, that part of my mind I imagine to be you, if you were still around.

I always picture you dressed as a Jedi, for some reason.

You’d think after sixteen years, I would have phased out of this “coping mechanism”, or whatever it was the grief therapist called it back then. Couldn’t tell you why it's happening again. I guess a lot’s happened lately, and some old feelings have been getting dredged up.

Of course, I haven’t written off the possibility that what went down in the War Games finally pushed me past my mental brink. As if it awakened something that had long been scraping at the walls within me, begging for an escape.

You would’ve been proud to have seen me in there, Dad. I was on quite the tear at one point.

I kinda wonder, back when you wrestled, did you ever experience something akin to a fighter’s high? A point in a match where the brain shuts off and instinct takes the wheel? Where all that matters is just you and the opposition? Where the tedium and meandering voices of the outside world become lost to the beautiful and indeterminate haze of unfettered rage and uncompromised violence?

Somewhere in that damned cage, among the blood and sweat and screaming and smashing of bodies into one another in every direction, I could feel myself reaching that place.

It’s just too bad there wasn’t more time to really take advantage of that feeling, after…

…well, I guess you already know how it all went down. One minute, I’m in there kicking someone’s ass, and the next, I’ve got some rando official tapping me on the shoulder, telling me I was done.

Can’t help but feel a little cheated. Like someone had unceremoniously pulled the plug on my Culture Shock moment. After all, it wasn’t as if it were my shoulders put to the mat.

Didn’t sleep well that night. Kept thinking how the whole trip to Wales might be a waste. All the effort put into preparing myself for that match -- put into enduring those fucking lunatics I was forced to team with -- just to say I went out there, did a few moves, and got upstaged by a walking fridge with eyes and a backpack.

Shikata ga nai, as you’d say. It is what it is.

Still, it didn’t feel right for me to leave with that feeling. To condemn myself to weeks of stewing at home, allowing myself get both physically and mentally soft with complacent idleness. Alone with thoughts I can’t shut off, that just endlessly eat away at me from the inside.

All I could think about was getting back into the ring. Getting back to that place I want to be in. Where I don’t have to worry about the trivial shit, like rankings, and contention ladders, and wins and losses. The place where I can just indulge in the feeling of being me, and doing the shit I do best.

So, a decision was made.

Only took a week to get all my affairs in order.

Little Zack agreed to watch over the lodge. Mom said she’d handle the correspondence and my bank accounts.

The work visa was approved without a hitch. Put my John Hancock onto the short-term lease to a small caravan trailer out in the Abbey Wood area just a few days ago.

For the next three months, your boy will be calling London his home.

Like I said, Dad…

That cage may have really pushed me past the brink.

βροντή

PRIME was the wrestling company that reigned supreme on the world stage. There was no disputing this.

Yet, the sheer sense of dissatisfaction felt by the Emerald Apex following the entire War Games experience somehow made the thought of widespread recognition less appealing. After all, what point was there in trying to stand out in a world that insisted upon seeing him as one face lost among a sea of others?

He knew there had to be more to this. More than just being seen.

And he knew the only place he could possibly find it was between the ropes.

So while he initially came to the United Kingdom all for a mere few forgettable minutes in the cage for Culture Shock, his introduction to RAPIER:BATTLEARTS was the event that convinced him to stick around through the entirity of PRIME’s European tour.

Thirty seconds in the ring at the co-sponsored Ace ABSOLUTE event was all it took. Magg “Manifesto” Gee, the poor scrub they paired him with, had to be carried out on a stretcher. Motherfucker had absolutely no idea what he signed up for.

But besides the easy win, the event as a whole gave him an immediate sense of respect for the RAPIER:BATTLEARTS system. They were a true caste of warriors, gathered from all walks of life. Firmly holding themselves to the discipline of treating wrestling as the way it was always intended to be.

A goddamn combat sport.

Just like the old Dojo, founded by his father back home back home.

But thirty seconds was chump change compared to what he really wanted out of a match. Hardly enough time to scratch the nagging itch for violence that had been clawing its way up the back of his head.

He needed more. And there was only one place where he knew he'd find it.

Problem was, simply locating the fabled BATTLEART Pit was something of a feat of greatness in and of itself. It had no number or address listed in any public directory. It was a hallowed place, designed to be known only to a tried and trusted few.

An admirable quality. But also damnably inconvenient in regards to networking.

He spent three days combing through every gym, fitness center, boxing club, grappling school, and jiu jitsu dojo he could find in the Greater London area. Asking for information. Names. Numbers. Connections. Leads. Anything.

Of the few he could actually get anything useful out of, all would say the same thing:

“Talk to To Minoikó.”

The title of one of the Pit’s fabled trainers, as they put it.

One thankfully gave him the address to a place up in Berkshire where they supposedly operated, even though a quick look-up revealed it to be a Greek bakery. He briefly suspected he might have been given the ride, until he arrived at the location, and saw the sign that hung from the awning.

“Wheat From Chaff Bakery,” it read.

This had to be the place.

A bell jangled as he stepped through the doorway. A young dark-haired woman stood behind the counter, hands working a roller, flattening a moist doughball on a wooden board. She hardly looked up from her work as he came in. As if he were expected, she nodded to a curtained-off doorway leading to a back room.

Gear bag in hand, Kerry Kuroyama went to where he was directed, and crossed the threshold.

The short hallway beyond eventually led him into a larger storage room in the back of the building. It came with only a single furnishing: a sparring ring, set at ground level.

Between the unpainted ropes, two bodies tussled against one another for leverage. They were young, and noticeably green. Kerry could tell by their shaved heads and blue shorts that they were recent New Blood graduates.

On the outside looking in, silently watching the battle unfold, stood a woman whose appearance was as striking as it was imposing.

She was tall and impeccably built, with snowy white hair cascading down thick, sinewy shoulders and arms that looked like they could have been carved from bronze. Her eyes were an unrepentant shade of blue. Burning will-o’-wisps, intently studying the match that unfolded before her. She bore a face of elegance and sternness, lined with years of wisdom and combat experience.

Unmistakably, this was the To Minoikó he was told to seek out.

Respectfully, he cleared his throat as he approached.

“You To Minoikó?”

She sniffed the air. Her eyes refused to stray from the two opponents in the ring.

“I am Drakos.”

It wasn’t a denial.

“Name’s Kerry Kuroyama. I’m from PRIME. Don’t know if you remember me from the Ace ABSOLUTE show.”

Drakos' sternness only seemed to intensify.

“I remember. One of the special attractions.”

Her voice was deep and rich, with all the flowing grace and destructive weight of molten steel. Kerry placed the accent as Mediterranean.

He also couldn’t help but notice the slight inflexion she put on “special attraction”. As though it were a pejorative.

“I can see you're busy, so I’ll just cut to brass tacks: I’m interested in working out at the BATTLEART Pit over the spring.”

Her nostrils flared with a sharp, almost equine snort.

“You forget your place, koutávi,” she seethed. “We allowed a dog like you to grace our sacred ring only as a favor to Madam Troy.”

Her eyes narrowed into two azure slits. The senescent creases in her face tensed into a scowl of repugnance.

“We arranged for you an opponent that had no business in any ring, let alone ours. One that was chosen specifically for their inferior skillset, as they would not serve to embarrass you. Because even though we know your PRIME to be a mere carnival, we do ourselves no favors by allowing the talent of our esteemed partners to appear weak.”

A scarred hand cut through the air in a wave of dismissal. As if he were nothing more than a pest.

“The Pit does not take in vacationers. If you seek a place to learn how to make yourself appear as a real fighter, then I suggest you look up Britain Sport Club.”

Kerry had, in fact, been in talks with them over the past week. Even went as far as putting in his bid for an appearance at their next show. In the unfortunate case of a breakdown in the present conversation, he knew he could at least find support from the Club.

But would it be enough to silence that tempestuous, unquenchable thirst churning within him?

No point in chancing it.

“I get that you guys work a rigid system. Punishing, so I hear. Frankly though, that’s exactly what I’m looking for. Because despite how I may come off, I can guarantee you that I’m no vacationer.”

An edge of insistence was rising in his own voice.

“Nor am I interested in simply appearing to be the real deal. That’s the Great Sherbert Mask you’re mistaking me for.”

He had to admit, watching Tom Battaglia being swiftly dismantled limb by limb by the destructive force of nature known as WALLACE was a strangely gratifying experience.

“I get that there’s probably a certain reputation that comes with being in PRIME. That place, it’s… had some understandably goofy shit crawl into the ring lately, I’ll admit. A carnival, you call it. Sure, why not? Hell, my next opponent there is a literal goddamn carny. Some daredevil, or Hollywood stuntman. I don’t know which. Drives around on a bike named ‘Anabelle’.”

Or was it Prudence? Kerry couldn’t remember.

Let alone be bothered to care. Motherfucker was on his way to learning the hard way that the human body could get fucked up a hundred ways worse than being thrown from a careening motorcycle.

“But I’m not about any of that bullshit. I was trained my entire life to keep this sport real, which is exactly what I was intending to prove to your organization last weekend. But if putting some scrub down in under thirty seconds wasn’t enough to convince you of that, then kindly point me in the direction of whatever hoop I need to jump through in to get you on board with--”

“ARRÊT.”

Drakos’ command came without warning. In the ring, the two combatants froze in the middle of their scrum on the mats, with one poised to mount the other.

She spoke something in French to both students. Then they rose to their feet, bowed to each other, to her, and exited the ring.

Only when they were finally alone did she turn her attention to him.

“Answer me this, koutávi,” Drakos began. “Why is it you fight?”

Kerry felt his shoulders shrug.

“Isn’t the answer obvious? I fight to win.”

She grunted, and shook her head pitiably.

“That is not a true answer,” she chided. “The glory of triumph exists in all fights. But the victory is not as important as what it represents.”

Kerry fought the urge to groan. If he wanted to listen to more of this cryptic shit, he could have stayed in Indianapolis, with his old trainer.

“Didn’t think I’d have to solve the riddle of the sphinx here,” he quipped. Although he ought not to have.

Her slap came suddenly, and struck with unforgiving force. A divine bolt of judgment, punishing him for his insolence.

“I am no sphinx,” she snapped, her voice cracking with anger. “I am To Minoikó, and that shall be your one and ONLY reminder. Choose to insult me again, koutávi, and you will not walk out of here on your own power.”

Kerry waited a moment to let the pain subside before rubbing the place where his jaw was hit. A warmth blossomed through his mouth on that side, where the cheek sliced itself against the teeth.

Unabated in spirit, he spat the blood onto the floor at her feet.

“If this is your way of trying to run me off… then you’re gonna have to start hitting a lot harder.”

Her glare was as fierce and deadly as a storm on the Aegean. For a moment, Kerry wasn’t entirely certain he hadn’t just signed his own death warrant.

That was until a smile spread across her face.

“...okay, koutávi.”

She cocked her head toward the ring.

“Let’s see how you try to win.”

Κεραυνός

Why do I fight, Dad?

Can’t say the question hasn’t been on my mind lately. Guess it means that I don’t really know.

Seemed so much easier to answer that when I was younger. I was fighting for you. And for jiji. To bring honor and recognition to the Kuroyama name. A legacy that spanned three generations of professional wrestling.

All that gushy crap.

But it’s clear to me now that a wrestler with daddy issues going through an existential crisis is nothing the world hasn’t seen a hundred times before. And considering why I originally came to PRIME, it sometimes almost feels like the goal of earning recognition in a place like this is somewhat self-defeating.

So why do I keep doing it?

Why do I fight?

If I had the answer, Dad, maybe I wouldn’t have had any need in going to that Greek bakery. Nor would I be seeking out each and every fight available to me out in this country, as my schedule permits.

Maybe then I also wouldn’t be so damn worried stepping into the ring against Harley Walker.

Goddamn… a stuntman. I guess they let anyone into the ring these days.

I’d hate for you to be around to see what’s become of this sport, Dad.

Our sport.

But I can’t deny that this guy has an uncanny ability to hold his own in a scrap. He’s overcome three others already, and went the full fifteen against Avalon. Against all odds, he’s somehow prevailing.

In some ways, I can respect a guy that comes into this business at his age and proves that he's able to pull off what he’s done these past couple months. But that respect ends in regards to his purpose in this sport of ours. Because I'm not completely convinced that wrestling isn't just the latest grift in a career full of failed attempts to make a spectacle of himself. To him, it’s just a way to earn another paycheck, so he can continue burning the candle of his life from both ends one bottle of bourbon and pack of smokes at a time.

Gone are the days of professionals, looking to climb ladders and stay in contention. The wrestlers of the modern era all seem to be disheveled, debaucherous pieces of shit that indulge themselves in their own personal weird, fucked up little voyages of self-discovery.

He’s got balls. Or so he thinks.

Discipline? Conviction? Persistence in the face of futility? That’s the sort of shit that takes BALLS.

At least that's what you told me.

But as ridiculous as it is to step into the ring against a washed up wannabe Super Dave Osbourne, I’d be stupid to overlook someone riding the kind of momentum he has right now. Because he strikes me as the type who could take an ass-beating from the pipes down below all the way up to the rafters above, only to eke one out as soon as the opportunity presents itself.

And what would that say about me? The consummate and committed wrestler’s wrestler, who spent half his life in pursuit of mastering this discipline?

What would that say about you? The man who dedicated his life to this craft? The man who played his part in the legacy I’m trying to continue?

This is our sport, Dad.

And if I’m no longer fighting for you, then know that I’m forever fighting for what you lived for.

Μοίρα

Kerry woke up on his back, staring at the ceiling.

Drakos stood over him, a slight smile of triumph etched into her face.

“I must admit, koutávi,” she said “You have impressed me.”

They had fought. But, clearly, he didn’t win.

He sat up. The world spun. A metal bucket sat at her feet, which she nudged over using the toe of her boot. Kerry grabbed it by the rim and promptly regurgitated.

No shame in it. Wasn’t the first time he’d been choked out, nor would it be the last.

“I am curious to know, why did you not tap?”

Memories slowly crept back into his mind’s eye. Brief flashes of the battle that ensued between them, including the lasting images he could recall the moment before blacking out.

Her face, stretched into a murderous Cheshire grin. Her eyes, burning like two gleaming sapphires.

Coupled with the sensation of her steely legs guillotining his head into a triangle choke.

“You wouldn’t have released it if I had,” he finally answered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

A velvety chuckle arose in her throat. Borderline wicked sounding.

“I can see that you are smarter than I took you for, koutávi. But still very flawed.”

Kerry looked up from the unsightly inside of the bucket to read her face.

“You say you fight to win. Yet just now, you either ignored or overlooked many opportunities to do so. Because winning is not the true reason you fight, koutávi. I can see now that you fight to dominate. To be seen as strong.”

She shook her head lightly. Her white hair, now tied back into a taut, dangling braid, swung across her shoulders.

“Your anger is not the weapon you believe it to be. It has become your crutch. A means of overcompensating for what you cannot execute or bring forth on your own power. You are skilled in many ways. Still, I am afraid there is much for you to learn.”

Kerry pushed the bucket aside and fell into a sitting position.

“I take it I answered the riddle correctly, then?”

Drakos’ smile almost seemed to widen. Slowly, she crouched down beside him.

“I will train you on three conditions. First, you must quit drinking.”

Kerry turned his face in toward his body and gave it a whiff. How could she tell? It was only midday. Far too early to break into the Suntory.

“Second,” she continued. “You must shed this unnecessary mass. Physical strength is only as good as the body that wields it. And you are merely a man of average size, trying to wield a greatsword. Thirty pounds at the least.”

He grumbled internally. No way in hell he was losing anything more than ten pounds, at a maximum.

“Third…”

Her fingers found a handful of his hair. She gave his head a tug. Something to let him know she meant business.

“If you do anything to leave me with the impression that I am wasting my time with you, I will feed your orcheís to the hounds.”

Drakos released him and rose up.

“You seek the BATTLEART Pit, koutávi,” she said. “But to you, I AM the Pit.”

The same smile she wore before their battle appeared on her face again.

Somehow, it looked more foreboding than her scowl.

“And in order to rebuild into your best self, the fall must first break you.”