As You Were: Hardly Working

The Hess Express is barrelling along I-81, headed for Ogdensburg, where we’ll cross the St. Lawrence back into Canada. I’m laid up in the lounge, head resting against the window, silently watching trees and traffic go by while Dozer’s “Through The Eyes Of Heathens” album blares through my over-ear headphones. The sky is overcast and spitting rain, pairing nicely with my choice of music. I don’t want to be disturbed. We’re three-quarters of the way through a fourteen-hour round trip and Cyril, rather wisely, hasn’t bothered me since we departed from the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building in New York City.

I should be celebrating with my best friend and manager, toasting the biggest deal I’ve ever made – or will make. We should be deep in our cups, dancing up and down the aisle, grinning from ear to ear. Instead, while I’ve been sulking in the corner, he’s been listlessly polishing his Minion the Imp mask to the point that it’s gleaming like chrome. I can see it, clearly reflected in the window, propped up against the armrest of the couch opposite from me. He’s sitting cross-legged in a meditative pose, wearing his gloves with the built-in sensors that trigger the animatronics that change the facial expression on the mask when the fingertips are tapped against the thumbs. It looks like he’s talking to the mask and changing its features to suit the response he desires.

The bone of contention between us is a question he asked on the way out of the Federal Building, one that’s irked me into ignoring him until cooler heads prevail.

“Are you sure you made the right decision?”

The decision in question relates to the deal I just made in New York City – regarding the sale of the meteorite that destroyed our homes at Parts Unknown. Government agencies were quick to swoop in and eager to get their hands on it, and clearly Cyril expected me to take Uncle Sam’s bag and share the wealth. Unfortunately for him I had other ideas.

It all started back in January, at the beginning of the international loop. I dreamed a strange dream that’s stuck with me ever since; one that took place on a foreign planet, in a futuristic city. I saw myself – or whom I thought was me – living a relatively normal life and dealing with everyday issues, while extraordinary things were happening all around me. I saw technological marvels that allowed for space travel without the need for fossil fuels, and animated corpses being stored in warehouses like spare parts. I saw a spaceship, captained by two pilots, almost tear itself apart because of a weak link in the chain of command. I saw a beloved celebrity who had migrated from Earth and given in to deviant base desires on this new world.

I’d told Cyril about it as we crossed the Pacific, aboard the USS Octane with the rest of the Bandits, headed for the first stop of the tour in Australia. Initially I thought the dream to be symbolic of the Bandits, especially the part about the ship captains, but then a series of events unfolded that led me to believe it was more of a premonition than a dream – leaving me questioning my own sanity. The night following the one in which I’d had my dream, I saw a shooting star. Nothing unusual about that except, after ReVival 61, I found out that an actual meteorite had crash-landed in my backyard.

I refused to believe that it could be the same shooting star I saw over the Pacific. Then I heard the news that Los Angeles was burning and, despite reports that arsonists were behind the destruction, wondered if the wildfires in the Palisades had been caused by something much, much worse. A federal agent had told me to my face that the devastation in my area was being reported by local media as an earthquake. Was it too much of a stretch to imagine the same thing had happened in LA?

If the two incidents were connected, it would explain why I was flown to California, specifically, to learn about the disaster which had occurred at Parts Unknown, over a thousand miles away. If I’d figured it out sooner then I would have corroborated my theory with the experts at Berkeley National Lab, but even if it turned out to be true there wasn’t a chance in hell they’d tell me – regardless of the NDA I’d signed. It would be the most significant impact event since Tunguska and I dread to think how the populace would react if word got out.

With all that in mind, I wasn’t inclined to accept any cash offer made to me. Cyril was perplexed by how I could turn down the money, but to explain my reasoning would be tantamount to tipping the first in a long line of dominoes and it wasn’t worth taking that risk – not even for an eight-figure sum. If my suspicions regarding the Palisades and Parts Unknown turned out to be true – and given the cyclical nature of the environment – then there’s a strong chance of a recurring cosmic event. What if the next one is the big one, the same kind of planet-killing asteroid that wiped out the dinosaurs? What use are tens of millions of dollars to me then?

Subsequently, the meeting in New York City lasted several hours. It took place in a conference room on a floor – which I am not at liberty to divulge – occupied by the Department of Homeland Security. A federal attorney sat at one end of the negotiating table, flanked by four other lawyers whom I recognized from my visit to Berkeley National Lab. I would have been outmatched and outwitted, sitting at the other end of the table, if it weren’t for the company of the lawyer provided to me by Cyril’s good friend Coocoo Haggerty.

The elderly entrepreneur – at least that’s what I assumed his role to be – had been staying with us at Parts Unknown, in Cyril’s house, for some months. Had I not invited him to join us on PRIME’s international loop, he would have been at home when the meteorite struck. He told me afterwards that, in light of me inadvertently saving his life, he’d support me any way he could – and that’s where Myron Crushniak factored in; an erudite gentleman of Eastern European descent that came highly recommended for the handling of this particular deal. He was a frail and spindly man, like a stick insect wearing a navy-blue pinstripe suit, with a thin head of oiled black hair, combed flat, and pursed lips that suggested prudishness – or an affinity for brass instruments. He didn’t even blink when I turned down the vast sum of money on offer.

“Begging your pardon, Mister Von Kelsig, but you do understand that the valuation of the item has been carefully and precisely estimated based on hard data collected from several agencies?” the attorney stated.

Myron cleared his throat politely and whispered a word of caution to me regarding extortion. I gently placed a hand between his sharp shoulder blades, maintaining eye contact with the attorney, and whispered back, “if you wouldn’t mind, please inform him that I am well aware of the data and, based on the rarity of the metal, am also aware of the potential it serves – especially to our government.”

I turned my gaze towards my lawyer. “I don’t want money, Mister Crushniak. Whatever it is they have planned, it’s going to be groundbreaking. I want in.”

His pupils flicked calculatingly back and forth for a moment before he nodded soberly. This was going to take every ounce of acumen and finesse to pull off. Anyone else in his shoes would have backed off immediately and told me to take the money and run. Myron simply clasped his hands, fixed the federal attorney with a stone cold gaze and did what Coocoo assured me he could do better than anyone else in his field – get results.

Cyril doesn’t know the outcome yet, other than the fact that I turned down the money. Someday I’ll tell him everything, and he’ll understand. Someday.

I’m no great devourer of books but I have read Atlas Shrugged, and after that meeting it feels like I’m living in that bizarre world. I’m not as accustomed to fantastical circumstances as the Kaels, Vales and Farthingtons of the world are, so it takes more focus and adjustment on my part to step out of the extraordinary and back into the relatively mundane world of professional wrestling. Falling asleep as we passed through Redwood and waking up at Sabourin’s Crossing helped greatly, that nap was worth its weight in gold. I don’t remember dreaming, but Dozer was still playing through my headphones when I woke up.

The Hess Express is parked up at the Canadian Tire Center now and ReVival 68 is due to go live later. Cyril is inside the venue, getting the lay of the land. The tension between us dissipated over the course of the journey from New York City, and we even shared a laugh before he left.

“I don’t have a good feeling about tonight, Cyril,” I’d remarked. He gave me a curious look and, before he could respond, I adopted a haunted expression and wiggled my fingers at him, whispering “Mister Beefyyy” with an inflection of doom and dread.

He sputtered out a snicker, shaking his head and breathing a sigh of relief that I was talking to him again. Pinching his fingers together, he enunciated back, “it’s Beefst. Mister Beefst.”

“Isn’t that the weird looking kid off the YouTube?” I asked sarcastically, to which Cyril grinned, shaking his head once more as he took his leave.

I kicked my feet up again and closed my eyes, thinking about the night ahead. At some point I was going to have to pull Tony aside and apologize again. Since the Green Vale Gang’s debut, I’d cost both him and myself a singles victory with my heavy-handedness – all thanks to the nefarious direction of this Ned Reform character. He has a knack for orchestration that, when combined with the wiliness of those slippery boys of his, catches me off guard and causes me to step in my own shit. If I don’t get my act together – and soon – we can kiss goodbye to another shot at the tag titles.

I need to be better. I helped Cancer Jiles navigate a thirty-two man iron man match to victory, for Hoyt’s sake, I can’t let two green little miscreants get away with running circles around me. I need to show Tony, and Cancer, that I’m reliable. I-

knock-knock...knock

A meek rapping on the bus door draws my driver’s attention and pulls me from my train of thought.

“Mister Murder, sir?”

I can just make out the whimper coming from outside. Craning my neck to get a better look, I see the arch of a basket handle and a familiar, bashful face staring straight at the door.

“Who the hell,” I mutter loudly, then to my driver say, “Stevie, let him in.”

The door whooshes open to the sound of rattling. I scan the aisle, waiting for the visitor to make their presence known. A diminutive figure steps into view, eventually, cradling a basket in both hands – the source of the rattling. I feel my left eye twitch as I recall the last time I was presented with a gift basket, but on closer inspection this one appears to be full of…sandwiches.

Damn me, it’s Steve Lemieux.

I don’t have to wait long for an explanation, because as soon as our eyes meet it pours out of him like an open faucet. His knees are shaking, the basket practically vibrating, and despite being in full view he cowers behind it like it’s some kind of shield. He babbles nervously about rehearsals, then offers the basket up and babbles some more about importing meat to Canada.

He’s like a deer in the headlights. The shakes come in waves, slight to intense and back again as he gazes at his surroundings, then to me, then to my driver, then back to me. He looks completely harmless. I realize I’m glaring as I analyze him, and soften my gaze before pointing to the counter beside him.

“Uh, thanks. Mighty kind of you,” I respond, as he places the basket down.

I’ve seen how he conducts himself backstage and in the ring. He seems innocent enough, if extremely naive. If anyone else were to say the things he’s said in his segments, to Matt Mills and Wade Elliott in particular, they’d catch a beating they couldn’t recover from and find themselves blacklisted from the business. Wade took it easy on him in the ring, by all accounts, and I can see why. He’s built like he’s made from dough, and devoid of all wherewithal. By rights I should chew him out for his absent-mindedness and kick his ass to the curb, but he’s so anxious I can’t help but feel sorry for him.

“Rehearsals you say?” I catch myself saying, against my better judgement.

He nods sorrowfully yet enthusiastically, wrapping his arms around his torso and hugging himself as he explains how confused people seem to be around him and how everything goes to hell when the spotlight is on him. He tells me how mad his opponents seem to get with him, and to my astonishment blames it on him accidentally hitting them too hard. I’ve seen him in action; the poor guy couldn’t batter a fillet of cod. Then he blows my mind with a remark about American Gladiators being a real sport compared to professional wrestling. I’d take a seat to stop myself keeling over with bewilderment, weren’t I already sitting.

“I see,” I utter back, and gesture to the couch opposite me as I try to make sense of what’s going on right now. “Take a seat.”

One thing I’m certain of is that I meant to say “see yourself out” there. This son of a bitch’s vulnerability is hypnotic. I don’t even notice him sitting down because, in my mind’s eye, I’m back in Old School Wrestling – discussing angles and planning matches with Propaganda, Dave Gibson, Azrael Cain and all the rest. Steve’s naivete is a shot of nostalgia to a time when the business was predetermined and not a straight-up shoot like it is these days. This is clearly a delicate matter, I need to let this guy down gently, or…no…I couldn’t……could I?

“You’re new here Steve, so you might not be aware…but professional wrestling goes hand in hand with your Gladiators. Both sports have been around forever and, speaking for what we do at least, there’s a way to do things – and a way to conduct yourself. Some of the guys don’t appreciate it when a newcomer like yourself shows up and starts asking questions and going about their business in a certain manner before they’ve been smartened up, you get me?”

Even as I say the words “smartened up,” an idea is forming. I’ve been so preoccupied with bulldozing the Green Vale Gang that I haven’t taken the time to stop and think about how to effectively deal with them. They’ve made it their mission to interfere in mine and Tony’s business in order to push their own agenda, and it’s cost us at every turn so far. There’s a strong chance they’ll try it again in my match tonight, and I think I’ve figured out a way to combat them. I realize I’m stroking my beard as I contemplate the opportunity that has presented itself before me – in the form of Steve Lemieux.

“What brought you here, Steve?” I ask, before he can respond to what I’d said prior. I’m trying not to jump the gun, but I can’t help myself. “What does PRIME mean to you?”

He stares at the floor, piteously, scratching the back of his head as he mulls over the idea of insulting anyone on the roster. He swears he’ll apologize to anyone he might offend in future – then, as casually as you like, turns to the gift basket of sandwiches and starts prodding it. A faraway look fills his eyes as he answers my last two questions and unwittingly drops a bombshell on me.

My heart bleeds for him as he explains what wrestling means to him; how it all started with watching reruns of American Gladiators when he was younger. He puts the cast on a pedestal, glorifying them and conveying just how special they made the contestants who went up against them look. With a nonchalant shrug he puts me in the same category as them, describing me as a superhero, and how he – the epitome of the average joe – hoped to one day feel as special as those contestants must have, next to his heroes. He tells me that being in PRIME has given him that chance.

The earnest response floors me. This isn’t a trick designed to evoke sympathy, he’s being completely genuine. He doesn’t push me for a reply, he just sits there in silence picking at the basket while I stare into the middle distance, dumbfounded. He isn’t here to carve out a reputation by any means necessary – like Hugo Vale and Daniel Green – he’s just a kid with a dream. There isn’t so much as a morsel of malice or defiance about him. He just wants to feel special.

By this point I’ve completely forgotten about my troubles – and what happened in New York City. Steve’s authenticity has captivated me and, in the process, inspired me. This is the kind of guy that deserves the spotlight, not those entitled little bastards in the Green Vale Gang. My hand is already on his shoulder, my eyes locked on his. I study him one last time, searching for a hint of impurity. I make my mind up the moment he looks up at me with puppy dog eyes.

“Then let’s make a superhero out of you.”

I don’t have time to cut a promo on him, nor the desire. I can’t imagine standing in front of the camera and ripping him to shreds; telling the world how I’m going to kill the Sandwich Man and do Sketti Bucket the biggest favor of their lives. Nor can I envision a monologue where I build the guy up; he’s in way over his head here – he thinks the business is a work, that this combat sport is scripted. Either way, no matter what I would have said, I’d be blowing smoke up his ass or terrifying him to the point of complete incompetence. I just can’t bring myself to do it, and it’s nearly showtime.

We have work to do.

Whatever illusion he’s under, breaking it now would just break his spirit. We have a show to put on, a paying crowd to impress, and a couple of jagoffs to put in place. I can’t put him over with my words, but I damn sure know how to get him over thanks to my years of experience.

I spend the next few hours imparting my knowledge on him – telling him what to pay attention to and what to ignore, how to improve his style in the ring and how to properly emote for the fans. I can’t convince him that what we do is real, that much is clear, but I can help him look like a million bucks out there. The secrets I share go against every principle of the modern incarnation of the sport, but they’ll help him to progress, if he has the desire, and more importantly…it’ll help me in dealing with the Green Vale Gang. I conclude our little session by dropping some offensive and defensive hints, clue him in on what it means when I potato him, and advise him to sell the match with an impassioned promo in his next segment. Finally, I warn him not to speak a word of what I’ve told him to anyone outside of this bus.

When I’m certain that we’ve come to an understanding, he fixes me with a very serious look and makes two requests.

“Last time all of my clothes exploded off of my body when Mister Wade got angry and I would like to keep my clothes on this time especially my shoes because the floor is very gross and I do not want my socks to stick.”

It takes every ounce of strength I possess not to burst out laughing in his face.

“Please do not break my glasses,” he continues. “I need those for seeing and I do not know where to get those Hakeem Olajuwon goggles.”

I don’t know how I do it, but I maintain my composure. I offer my hand, before I can buckle, and shake his.

“You got it, Steve,” I smile confidently. “You got it.”