Better For Me.

August 23rd, 2024 Moda Center, Portland, Oregon Post Match, ReVival 54

“RUAAAH!” The door of a locker flies across the room, The Behemoth’s bellow reverberates off of the walls. The steel door slides, skids, and begins to flip end over end,  finally coming to rest at the boot of The Emerald Apex.

“Woah! Woah!” Kuroyama bursts over the door and into the room. Scott Hunter trails behind the Apex and even further away from the Monster. He shuffles sideways towards Kerry as Clay barrels in his general direction.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO!” The spittle flies from his lips as the Cowboy Colossus shouts and points towards Kerry Kuroyama’s VVingman. Clay swipes the mucus from his beard and turns towards a bench. He lifts it and turns like a hammer throw. Scott Hunter makes sure he’s as far from the release point as possible, considering The Behemoth hurled it precisely where he had just been standing was a good thing.

“What the fuck Clay!” Kuroyama doesn’t back down from the rampage and positions himself between the mad Texan and Hunter. Kuroyama turns back towards Hunter, “Get the fuck out of here.”

“RUN YA LITTLE CHICKEN SHIT!” The Monster from Plainview bellows and throws a water bottle in the direction of the now fleeing Hunter. Clay stumbles and collapses against a locker from the exertion. He slumps down and takes a huge breath, his pulse still racing, the anger seething and the rage finally ceasing. Kerry was still on high alert, keeping himself away from the rampaging cowboy.

“Sorry Ker,” another breath, just like they taught him. Clay straightened his shoulders and took another deep, calming breath. “I just, ah, I wanna fuckin’ strangle that lil shit.”

“Scott did the right thing, Clay.” The Behemoth’s gaze burned a whole through Kuroyama, but Kerry wasn’t going to back down. He wasn’t going to positively reinforce the manbaby tantrum Clay was throwing.

“We fucked up, we were pretty deep in it and he saved my ass. That’s his job Cla…”

“I don’t give a fuck what his god damn job is, Kerry. I saw what was goin’ on, I had ya. I was gonna cleave that motherfucker in half…” the tantrum continues as the manbaby thumps his bag on the floor emphatically.

“You were out there with FLAMBERGE, one of the best wrestlers in the entire sport. They got us Clay, that’s it. Whatever the hell you got going on with them, I don’t have going on, I’m not giving up my fucking arm for it…” Kerry finally relaxes and sets the bench back upright. He tests its stability for a moment, before leaning back in towards the big man.

“Y’know?” A phrase that can change any statement into a question.

“I know.” With Clay’s thinking box further away from the moment, away from the feelings, the answer to the question was easy; even for The Behemoth.. It was selfish to expect Kerry to sacrifice so much, when he had so little to gain.

“It’s just him, Ker… he just…” Clay’s hand flexes reflexively. A snarl creeps through beneath the matted blonde beard. His hand continues to twinge, partly caused by anxiety, partly by the adrenaline fading.

“Yeah, he gets your goat. I get it, you have to get over that though. Or you’ll let it eat you alive,” Kuroyama knew Byrd disliked Conor Fuse, but this type of hatred, the way it almost turned Byrd into a thoughtless… monster.

“Ya, ya, I know…” the mumbling stammer of Clay didn't slow Kerry down.

“Do you?”

The question from the Apex was rhetorical, of course Kerry didn’t understand. It didn’t happen to him. He couldn’t know what it felt like. The bile. It wasn’t even… it couldn’t be. While Clay’s thoughts whirl, Kuroyama stands up, disgust still oozing from his pores.

“I’m going to go check on Scott. You work out…” Kerry points around the room aimlessly at the bench and the door. “ Whatever the hell it is you got to work out.”

The thoughts race again, part of him wanting to rip Kerry’s face off. The admonishment was fresh, the feedback raw. The emotions bubble to the surface, but a stray rational thought is there, born from the Monster’s own anxiety. Maybe this was something he needed to hear?

The locker room door clicked shut, saving Clay from his own mind. Before the thoughts finished their meal.

—-----------------------

September 19th, 2024 Lumen Field, Seattle, WA Troy Suite

“What are you doing here?” Lindsay Troy’s voice calls out as she steps through the suite doorway. PRIME staff members follow in behind LT, and The Behemoth finally acknowledges he’s probably some place he shouldn’t be.

“Coral kicked me out, said I ate too much of the catering and Bobby was upset,” Clay picked up a few triangle shaped sandwiches. Triangles for extra flavor, of course, only the best for the Troy suite on the eve of UltraViolence. “Or at least that’s what he said, you’ll have ta take my word fer it.”

“Well, if you can’t tell I’m kind of busy…” Lindsay Troy’s eye roll is legendary, and the glare that follows even more damning, but the snark is brutal.

“Don’t worry boss, I got plenty of time, I’ll just make myself at home over here,” The Behemoth throws himself down across a leather sofa recliner.  “and whenever ya got a few minutes of spare time where I can get yer ear…”

“What do you want, Clay?” The irritation in her voice was high, the wave of staff continued coming as they rapidly moved furniture around. The tray of triangle sandwiches was slowly carried off in front of LT, she didn’t even blink.

“What’s this I hear ‘bout Farthington? Somethin’ ‘bout his flight?” The Behemoth spits the words out between bites of delectable little triangle fingey sandwiches. Troy allows herself to relax a moment. This was a reasonable request.

“Yeah I think he sent Ami a plane emoji, the wind emoji, a water emoji, an 11:59 clock and a sad face a few hours ago,” the look of confusion spread across the disgruntled face of the barely gen-x should be boomer Byrd was humorous but Troy needs to allay The Behemoth’s concerns.

“Travel issues, he’s not going to make it,” the desired effect wasn’t there, and The Behemoth’s disgruntlement and ire only grew.

“Always ‘bout him. Can’t fuckin’ make it. Just fly in fuckin’ earlier ya fuckin’ je…” The Behemoth grumbles as he sets the empty plate on the table. Troy doesn’t let the absurd commentary from Byrd continue.

“Didn’t you fly in this morning?” Troy huffs, and Byrd tries to speak up but the Queen is holding court and Byrd is just a witness to her ire.

“So if some hurricane hit Texas you’d be stuck there, or some tornado, or some other terrible disaster. You’d be in the same boat he is,” LT tosses a stack of papers on a recently prepared desk and turns back towards Byrd, she continues the verbal shit kicking, a real combination maneuver from some broken street fighter game.

“I don’t get it, Clay. Everyone tells you that you need to get over the stuff with Cecilworth and you just can’t let it go. You would have done the same damn thing if you were in his shoes,” The Behemoth was reeling in the chair, his eyes wide.

“You did-DO THE SAME THING!” Lindsay Troy points to her own skull as her voice raises with the realization. “I forgave you, I got over it, and here you are, being a big behemothbaby about the same damn thing.”

Clay tries to get a word in, but Troy’s scathing inferno hasn’t found its stopping point. She begins pointing at Byrd.

“And don’t you dare say it’s worse because he broke your fucking arm, Clay. That walking MAGA bumper sticker in tights yelled equal rights after you hit me with a goddamn chair,” Troy’s ire was center stage, her finger an inch away from his face.

“But I’m over it Clay, we work, we do our job, we understand the past is the past, and we all did some bad things,” Troy flips her hair, twirling and smirking. The ire lends itself well to the snark she oozes.

“But you, the big tough guy can’t just get over it. Have to go and smash up a locker room in Portland,” a bombshell from Troy, and Byrd is wobbling even more in this conversational kickboxing match. “And who do you think is going to pay for that?”

“Fuckin’ Kerry, that lil fuckin’ rat…” Byrd tries to deflect but Troy has her prey wounded and continues on the offensive.

“Nobody ratted, come on Clay, it’s not hard to figure out the big dumb cowboy had a babyfit when a locker door is torn off its hinges and discarded on the opposite side of the room, and a trash can is dented from a thrown water bottle,” Lindsay crosses her arms, absolutely exasperated. “How do you even do that? Do you know those trash cans are $800 each in Portland?”

Clay was ashamed, embarrassed, his voice struggled to produce sound, a bubble of gas seemingly pushing against his uvula. The Behemoth turns almost a specific hex code of red, and LT finally confident she made her point lets it continue to sink in.

“I fucked up, I get it… Take it outta my check or whatever,” the confrontation is uncomfortable for Byrd, a disagreement with a friend. His skin crawls as he stands to his feet and Troy picks up on the uncomfortable body language.

“It’s whatever, Clay,” she shakes her head. “You need this to be it though, whatever this is. You two are on for 56, and then it needs to be done.”

Byrd backs away, the argument unwinnable. Throwing the proverbial towel in on the conversation. He glances towards the door and gives it a limp thumb.

“I’ll get goin’, I know yer busy…” The Monster tries to escape but Troy’s voice spins him around.

“Clay.”

“Yeah.”

The pause is enough for Troy to catch Byrd walking out of the suite.

“It’s not a command or something, it’s just a suggestion. I just think it’d be better for you,” Troy says as she grabs a bag off of a production cart. She speeds past, letting the door click shut leaving The Behemoth alone.

“Me too.”

Eating himself alive.

—-----------------

The rental black truck rumbles down the road. The Behemoth sat in the front seat, glaring out the windshield. His phone is held against the steering wheel, the speaker phone button pressed. A call is in progress, “KER-BEAR” is clearly the person on the receiving end of the rings. Finally, the audible recording starts.

“The caller is not available, leave a message.”

BEEP

Clay gulps as the beep goes and begins his verbal jaunt.

“Hey Ker, don’t worry ‘bout me on fitty-six. Max killed that dick puncher kid and the other two sticky fellers are gonna be occupied. Just, do me a favor, tell Scott it was my bad. I shouldn’t a yelled at him like that. I was just all bent out of shape, ya know, he’s been a hell of a Wingman fer ya Kerry. Tell Scott after I’m done workin’ this shit out, I’ll buy him a steak or somethin’. Ya know, celebratin’ what the two of ya are gonna accomplish. Anyway, lemme know if ya need me or anythin’ kid. Sorry ‘bout all that last week… Anyway… Go get ‘em champ.” Clay pulls the phone hand down to hit the turn signal to pass someone going however many slower metrics than they should be.

“Your message has been saved, would you like to rerecord your message press 7 or to send your message press five.”

BEEP

—---------------------

History is peculiar.

It’s the oil of our industry. It fuels the fire of progress, it provides meaning for the present. It could be venerated, it could live on exuding infamy and taint. Oil like history is versatile. Plastics, asphalt, cosmetics, even aspirin. We become infatuated when things have various purposes. We analyze, and reanalyze, we turn the garbage from one into another new product. It cascades, trillions and trillions of dollars all moving around black gold.

Versatility leads to infatuation.

Infatuation leads to subjugation.

I have been subjugated.

History is a cruel master, especially when it’s your own. Sure, here, in PRIME we’re removed from the weird, cruel, and malformed ideas of brainwashed minds. But we’re still beholden to the weight of what transpired between us. Moments of fear, moments of passion, constant conflict warped around a cult of personality and the whims of its sycophants. It shouldn’t bother me like it does, it shouldn’t sit there as a wrong I haven’t had the chance to right.

I tried to leave all of that back in the pit.

I think you did too.

But it still sits there Cecilworth. It rests itself on our shoulders, the yoke that plows the fields of our industry. We can choose to struggle with the weight of the burden, taking the slow methodological path. Spend time analyzing our internal struggles with the things we’ve done, and how we’ve acted. Maybe find some form of repentance for our past transgressions. Look what it did for Donnie Winters.

But I’ve never been one to be complacent, and neither have you. I’ve never been one to plow the field of my feelings until the job was done. There’s shortcuts in your brain, little tunnels and secret passageways. Everyone else calls them things like ‘Repression’, ‘Revenge’, ‘Anger’, ‘Hate’, all the things the pain makes us feel. It helps us process and to understand why we hurt. Sure, there’s the rational way of handling emotions, people like Phil, and Don, decades processing.

But we just want it over with.

We want the hurt to stop.

We’ll take the shortcut.

Even if it’s the goat path.

I’ve hated you for so long. I used to dream about hurting you. Watching you lie there, and I just stomp half of your fucking face off. My friend, she’s your friend. She tells me to forgive you, because she forgave me. But I don’t think they understand how people like us think. Our revenge is ultimate, I dream of breaking your face. You dream of tearing my arm ligaments to shreds. When you have that type of feeling, that type of detestment, how do you let it go?

It’s my yoke, Cecilworth. The one thing that tethers me there, the one thing that leaves me beholden to my past. It smashes me down, pushes me into the dirt, smears the grime of the mine.

I talk to someone now.

I guess they say this behavior is obsessive.

When I think about it, it’s completely irrational to hate you.

It’s been three years. It’s been a whole PRIME since then, everyone says you’ve changed. I hear the way people speak about you. It’s not with fear like they did before. And I don’t mean that in a bad way. I’ll mean plenty of other things in that way, but not that. They view you with reverence, a quiet respect for the esteemed and dangerous man you are. The panic of the fear, the stench your presence caused because of the rest of their reactions. It permeated and obfuscated who you really were.

We barely overlap in the pit. It was one instance egged on by a sick twisted little man who made it very convenient for you to exist there. I understand it completely. We all know my past and history. How many times I did the same.

But it’s the cost, the scale of things. The weight of it all. Cecilworth, you broke my arm and changed my life.

Every dream where I broke your nose and smeared your face gore into the mat, for every dream of revenge I dreamt about the pain. I was so defiant in that moment, I felt the adrenaline racing through my veins, the rage and the indignity of what just happened. The assault with the pipe, the knee to the face, being admonished and chastised for having the gall to wonder if I was the best wrestler in the world. Such a naive thought, for someone so brash as me to have is what I imagine you thought while you held it on the precipice of snapping.

They never succeed in the stories. Even when I was ten Mr. Kuroyama was there to save my father, someone is always there to save the day. Someone else who’d been wronged by one of the monsters in the ring would come and save the day. I relied on hope then, and sure, it was naive, but I had it. Like the rebel alliance in Star Wars or something.

Now I wonder if you were also wishing someone would stop you.

And then the snap, and I didn’t even feel the pain. The physical pain, I was numb. Adrenaline is powerful, and there was a lot of it. What I felt was embarrassment. How I could be so fucking stupid, so fucking dense. How did I not realize the futility of my situation? Was I as dumb as GOD actually wanted me to be?

Twenty thousand people essentially watching me piss my career down the drain.

My stomach sunk, tears of shame welled. The awkwardness, the bubble in the back of your throat that just won’t go down, the so near gag reflex that thinking about gagging causes you to gag. I had to replace that feeling, I needed the shortcut. I needed a way to process this that didn’t end with a puddle of vomit in the center of the ring that night.

So I swallowed it, the tears began to burn and sting. Instead of shame, we found vengeance and revenge. The perversion of my rational thoughts into irrational feelings.

Then they were just bottled away.

Allowed to ferment.

In our business, when we plow the fields, eventually there comes another confrontation. Normally, sensible people understand the confrontation will make them a lot of money, and will, you know, make sure that confrontation happens in due course. But that’s the norm if you will, where we were, in the pit, we were accessories to the larger story.

To the best performance.

Our feelings didn’t matter, our needs didn’t matter, our wants didn’t matter. You know that better than anyone. Our grudges were always second fiddle to the greater schemes and machinations.

It’s so easy to rationalize it.

Why can’t I just do it? They all say we’ve changed, they all say that we are different, they all say we are not who we were.

But you hurt me Cecilworth.

And I don’t mean just physically.

This paranoia, this joining group after group, this longing for friendship and acceptance. Needing someone to watch my back every second I walk around. I need other people because I’m not strong enough by myself. I’m not enough, I’m not enough to fucking matter. I need them to help bare my yoke because I’m too fucking weak to carry it by myself. I can’t process it, I can’t handle it. The fear, even when I was screaming in Youngblood’s face, I was looking over my shoulder. Lindsay Troy was on the other side of that damned curtain, and I was still terrified.

Who was going to pop up and fucking ruin this for me? Who was going to try to take this from me?

I’m a wounded fucking animal because of you.

And they want me to forgive you. Just give away all the feelings, all the pain, the thing I’ve burnt as fuel for years. Just let it go, just watch it float away listlessly. Unresolved, stripped of its meaning. After letting it ferment, and tasting it again. How sweet it tastes, what it feels like when it runs through my veins.

It has to have meaning. It has to have resolution.

The scale needs to be even.

You need to help carry the yoke.

And I’m going to fucking make you.

Then, maybe, when we both know what it’s like.

We can forgive each other.