As You Were: Fee-Fi-Fum-Fo

The presidential suite of the Pfister Hotel wasn’t as lavish as that of the Marriott in Edmonton. While it lacked amenities and style, a sense of grandeur was nevertheless afforded by the view of the Romanesque courthouse across the road, the turquoise spires atop the central tower gleaming brightly under the hot July sun whenever the clouds parted. Shimmering heat waves rose from the rooftops of the surrounding buildings and I could feel the warmth on my skin despite the A/C keeping the suite at a cool 59 degrees.

“I’m gonna put a broom handle through his wheel spokes, that’s what I’m gonna do.” Cyril was lying at the end of the bed splayed out like a little starfish, staring at the ceiling as he pondered all the ways he could make life miserable for Rexton William Bader. “That’ll teach him.”

He’d been plotting ever since we’d arrived, to the point where his frustrations were threatening to seep into my bones while I was preoccupied with scrolling through real estate websites on my personal cell. Word had gotten to the developer that owned the wind turbines surrounding Parts Unknown that my property was no longer a viable residence, and the company had reached out with a view to leasing the land for the installation and operation of a solar farm. We agreed upon a deal that would generate passive income for the next thirty years and allow me to keep ties to the place I’d called home for over a decade. Now I was looking forward to finding a new place to call home.

“Ooh!” Cyril pipped, “I could switch out his oxygen tank for nitrous oxide! What about that? Get up in his face before the match, challenge him to prove he needs it? He takes a big ol’ huff and -boom- lights out!”

“Sounds good,” I replied absent-mindedly as I perused through a list of ranches.

“Or what if we rolled his ass into the gents and fed him to Freddy?” he continued, his eyes lighting up at the possibilities.

“Yeauh-huh,” I muttered indifferently.

Cyril tilted his head towards me, unimpressed by my tone. “Maybe I strap a plastic explosive under his seat…” he trailed off, waiting for my reaction.

I nodded, silently.

With a bitter look in his eyes he picked himself up and waded over the duvet towards me like he was crossing a boggy marsh, pointing a finger gun at me.

“What if I just pull a gun on him and,” he pressed his fingertips to the back of my neck. “Bang. Drop him like the sack of shit that he is.”

“As long as the ref doesn’t see it,” I mumbled, half-heartedly flicking his hand away.

With a shrill “HEY,” he dove past me suddenly and landed on the floor awkwardly, on all fours, swatting the phone out of my hand in the process.

“Hey!” I barked back, grabbing for the phone before he could snatch it up. “The hell’s wrong with you??”

“Me?!” he said with a stunned expression. “You’re asking what’s wrong with me?? I’m trying to come up with a game plan here, pal! To make sure you don’t get distracted and lose your freakin’ match! What chance do I have when I can’t even stop you being distracted by your GODDAMN PHONE?!!”

“I’m not distracted,” I glared at him. “I-”

“Bullshit!” Cyril jabbed a finger at me. “You need to get your shit together or Snow is gonna run you through! You’re not dealing with frat boys and megaphones any more Ange, this is a stone cold killer we’re talking about here. Mr. 407. And he thinks he’s lost a step, think about that for a second. One of the baddest motherfuckers to ever lace up a pair of boots thinks he needs an equalizer. So now, in the event he doesn’t just outright maul his opponent, he’s got an oxygen tank swinging ASSHOLE watching his back and plugging the gaps for him. He has all the tools necessary to blast through everyone in his path, take back the Universal title and hold on to it for as long as he damn well pleases. What’re you gonna do about it, huh? Should we give Steve Lemieux a call? You didn’t have any trouble shutting out the Green Vale Gang when you were in the ring with him.”

I flinched at the mention of Lemieux and turned my back to him. “Don’t start with that, that was different.”

“You’re goddamn right it was,” Cyril balked, hastily re-positioning to my front. “Playtime’s over. It’s Jason Snow. It’s the Almasy. Time to lock the fuck in. You’re a Global Title Tournament winner, remember? If you can get past the first round, there’s nothing stopping you taking the whole damn thing and finally getting back the title you never even lost in the first place.”

My skin prickled with gooseflesh and a chill shot up my spine at the mention of the Universal title. I felt the same sensation as when Cancer rallied the troops prior to the Manhunt, as when Tony and I put his plan into action and defeated the Green Vale Gang at UltraViolence. I closed my eyes, clenched my fists and took a deep breath. “Okay, you’re right,” I admitted. “What did you have in mind?”

“Just…pay attention,” Cyril sighed, shaking his head. He clasped his hands behind his back, bowed his head and started pacing across the room. “First thing’s first,” he said firmly, “your nips are poking through your shirt.”

“What the f-” I scowled at my chest. “What’s that got to do with anything??”

He spun to face me. “You know who’s got soft nipples? Jason Snow.”

I furrowed my brow. “Cyril, be serious.”

“Oh I’m as serious as a heart attack, Stiff Tits,” he sniped back, waggling that finger at me again. “The guy’s a blank slate. He beat you last year because you were so enamored with the idea of stepping in the ring with him that you didn’t give any actual thought to defeating him. You did what you always do; throw your weight around and telegraph everything to your opponent.”

Despite the affront, I held my tongue and let him say his piece.

“All he had to do was wait for the right signal and adjust accordingly, watch the tape back and see for yourself.”

“I-”

“And that was back when he was still talking,” Cyril cut in. “Now he won’t even open his mouth. He doesn’t talk, blink or blush. Doesn’t even get hard nipples. He doesn’t give anything away.”

“So I need to work on my poker face, is what you’re telling me?” I queried.

“No,” he regarded me sternly. “Don’t even think about doing that, you’ll compromise yourself even more. He’s much smaller and faster than you are, if you try to match his pace he’ll just run circles around you.”

I flapped my arms frustratedly. “So what do you want me to do then?”

“Stay as close to him as you can. You’re an open book, a giant one. The second you clench your fist, before you’ve even wound up for a strike, he knows what’s coming. Same with your legs. You hit hard, sure, but it requires more movement. He can out-manoeuvre you before you even connect. The more distance you give him, the easier you are to read.”

As he paced back and forth, laying out his plan, my pocket started vibrating. “I hear you,” I said to him as I retrieved my third phone. The one I’d been issued with after the meteorite strike.

“If you want to even the score,” Cyril continued as I checked the inbox. “You’ll need to rely on feinting. Telegraph a punch then come in with a kick, or bring a knee up and throw an overhand or an elbow instead. The closer you are, the more difficulty he’ll have covering all the bases. Keep a tight proximity and make it harder for him to see where the next shot is coming from. Stagger him with a strike, follow up with whatever slam, driver, drop or bomb you want, then get right back on him. Don’t give him a chance to breathe.”

“Got it,” I said, reading the new text message. “Hey, listen…”

“As for Bader,” Cyril raised his hand to shush me. “Leave him to me. You’re going to have enough on your plate without having to worry about that slimy bastard as well. I’ve got more than enough tricks up my sleeve – and under the ring – to keep him busy.”

“Alright, but look, I-”

“Try and recruit you? Pah,” he spat, his pace growing more fervent. “I’m gonna make him my bitch, that’s what I’m gonna do. He’s got no idea who he’s messing with.”

“Cyril!”

“What?!” He spun around angrily and saw the phone in my hand. “Oh no,” he shook his head vigorously. “Don’t you dare-”

It was my turn to interrupt him. “I have to go to San Diego.”

“Wha-no! What the hell for??”

I ducked the question with a sigh as I pocketed the phone and collected my travel bag.

“Angelus, we’ve got less than a week to prepare for this match,” Cyril’s tone was grave. “You don’t have time to be flying all across the country.”

“It’s an eight hour round trip,” I assured him, throwing on my jacket. “I won’t even be gone a day.”

“Every second counts!” he pleaded, stepping into my path with his hands held up. “And you can bet your ass Snow isn’t out there frolicking around wasting time before the match. We need to be prepared.”

I hunched over and placed a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him aside. “We will be. I’ll start training as soon as I get back. You can drum your plan into my head then. I need to do this.”

“This is your chance at a shot at the Universal title, Ange,” Cyril stated, pushing back futilely. “What’s more important than that?”

“Some things are bigger than wrestling,” I said, without thinking. His resistance evaporated all of a sudden and he staggered off to the side, astounded. I shirked past him towards the door, all too aware of what I’d just done. I scrambled for something to assuage him. “The sooner I get this over with, the better. Then I’m all yours. Promise. See you tomorrow.”

He said nothing, staying frozen in place as I closed the door behind me.

I knew what I was walking into from the text message I’d received, but I wasn’t prepared for how…unassuming it would all be. I was met by a man in a suit with a blonde crew cut and glasses after deplaning, standing amongst a small crowd holding cards with various surnames written on them. Mine stood out in big, bold type on the screen of the iPad he was holding. He did the initial double take when he first saw me, as many who haven’t seen a giant in person tend to do, and seemed taken aback as I made a beeline for him. He relaxed a little when I repeated my name back to him, the novelty of the situation apparent despite his resolute facade.

“My name is Boucher. If you please,” he said with a French lilt, gesturing towards the exit. “The car waits.”

I followed him out to the pickup and dropoff area and into a black Cadillac SUV. He gave no instruction to the driver and offered no pleasantries on the drive, spending the duration tapping and swiping away on the iPad from the moment he was buckled in. Whether he was intimidated, offended or simply absorbed in his work, I let him be as we headed south. We didn’t stray far from the bay, pulling up outside a nondescript office building nestled between an apartment block and a two-storey parking garage after only ten minutes. Above the main entrance hung a gleaming silver logo, a solid cogwheel belted with a planetary-style ring with ‘DeGroot Enterprises’ etched into it.

Boucher exited the car and made for the front door without saying anything. I thanked the driver and followed him into the foyer where two security guards stood posted on either side of a metal detector that was big enough for me to walk through without stooping or sidling. He handed his iPad to the first guard, who passed it over to the second as Boucher passed through the detector. I copied him and waited on the other side as both guards took turns searching my travel bag. Ahead sat the front desk, occupied by an elderly lady with pearls around her neck and victory rolls in her hair. Boucher approached her, was handed a credential card, then moved across to the stairs and elevators adjacent.

“Okay, all clear. Thank you,” the second guard said as he handed my bag back to me. I smiled and nodded, joining Boucher just as the elevator doors opened.

“Do not lose this,” he said without looking up from his iPad. “It will grant you access to all our facilities.”

I took the laminated tag from him as we stepped into the elevator. My name was printed on it, and below that an ID number and barcode. Beside those, a headshot of me that I recognized right away.

“Is that the picture from my driver’s license?” I asked curiously.

“Yes,” Boucher confirmed as we ascended. “Our ties with the government allow us to expedite many of our processes. Efficiency is key here, you will find.”

The doors opened and we stepped out of the elevator and straight into an office space occupied by a desk with a computer and phone on it and filing cabinets lined up behind it. Another door stood just beyond the desk, set into a wall-to-wall partition of frosted glass. Boucher took a seat at the desk, placed his iPad down and logged into the computer, skilfully typing with one hand while picking up the phone with the other.

“Mr. Von Kelsig to see you, sir,” he said, placing the handset down again and typing on the keyboard with both hands. He gave me a quick glance, the first time he’d made eye contact since we’d met at the airport, before turning his attention back to the monitor. “You may enter.”

I left him to his duties and opened the next door into another office, a simple setup not unlike Boucher’s, with the exception of several framed certificates on the back wall behind the desk that immediately caught my eye. I noticed a BSc in Engineering Physics from the University of Twente and an MSc in Aerospace Engineering and PhD in Materials Science and Engineering from TU Delft. Then a large, hairless head rose up from the desk in front of me, all smiles. He was almost as tall as I was.

“Angelus Von Kelsig, a pleasure,” my fellow giant said, extending a hand over the desk towards me. His accent was unmistakably Dutch, his tone dulcet. “My name is Henk de Groot, CEO of DeGroot Enterprises. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“Nice to meet you, Henk. Pleasure’s all mine,” I replied, shaking his hand. His grip was as soft as sunlight.

He sat back down, clasping his hands and regarding me like some unique specimen with his moleish eyes as I took the seat opposite. “I’m told you are a combat athlete, yes? Such a vocation demands great discipline and dedication. Apologies for any inconvenience to your schedule, thank you for making the time to be here today. It is most appreciated.”

I gave a curt nod. “Don’t mention it. If it wasn’t important, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Splendid, let us proceed then,” he smiled delightfully as he turned to his monitor, his hand engulfing the wireless mouse on the desk as he started clicking away. “I was informed by the Board of Directors that you forfeited sale of your quantity of stellacite in favor of an investor role within the company, yes?”

“That’s correct.”

“Then I must personally thank you for this investment, it has advanced our development exponentially. PU11625 contained the single largest deposit ever recorded, more than has been gathered throughout the last fifty years. Stellacite has been harvested from approximately three hundred and fifty meteorite impacts across the globe since 1975, and your claim has yielded more of this metal than all of those samples combined. It is simply miraculous. There is no other way to obtain it than waiting for the cosmos to provide, and now we finally have enough.”

“Enough for what?” I asked. I’d been contemplating the possibilities of this metal ever since Berkeley. What kind of revolutionary technology would emerge from it? Communicative? Propulsion? Ballistic?

“For this,” Henk said, turning the monitor towards me. “Project Bifröst…”

The video digital rendering of an orbital station, not unlike the ISS, floating above Earth – specifically the Americas. The stars in the background changed position constantly, suggesting rotation, but the landmass stayed the same. The station appeared to be static. Then, just as I noticed the anchor line attached to the base of the station, the video zoomed in to reveal pod-like containers travelling up and down it. It focused on one in particular as it exited the station and travelled down the anchor line towards Earth, attached to robotic climbers, the gears and systems visible through translucent casing. The video zoomed back out again to reveal the container already docking on a massive oceanic platform where it detached itself from the line and was carried away by a bulky container crane. The whole process then played in reverse, with a payload being attached and climbing back up to the orbital station.

“...a space elevator, if you will,” Henk concluded, with the biggest smile yet, as the video ended. He sat back in his chair triumphantly, crossed his legs and clasped his hands over his kneecap, while I sat there in complete awe. “Since the dawn of our species, we have gazed upon the stars and wondered. In our technological infancy, we reached out to them. What you are witnessing here, Mr. Von Kelsig, is our emergence. The very moment we seize them. This is the beginning of humanity’s cosmic odyssey…”

A chill ran up my spine at what he said next, my limbs tingling as I tried to comprehend the profound gravity of his words.

“...and you get to be a part of it.”

Showtime

I’ve experienced your wrath firsthand, Jason. I remember it well. I was blinded by your light and consequently burned for allowing my wonderment get the better of me. I’ve watched you, in deference, ascend to a level of greatness that few can even fathom, let alone achieve. From Primetime Championship Wrestling all the way to PRIME, you have left an indelible mark on this industry. To challenge you is equivocal to throwing oneself into the lion’s den and praying for, at the very least, a glorious death. Survival isn’t guaranteed, much less victory. Your legacy is defined by the countless bodies you have gorged upon insatiably…

…but your belly looks awfully full these days. You’ve grown long in the tooth, had your fill and now you’ve rolled over onto your back and exposed yourself. Your silence speaks louder than you could ever know and the parasite that’s attached itself to you has fattened itself into a bright red beacon to all that the King is dead. Now your bloated remains lay before me, blocking my path to greatness. Your claws may yet be sharp, but the same can’t be said of your resolve.

Why bite your tongue? Do you think if you speak your hopes and desires out loud you’ll be denied success? Have you grown superstitious in your old age? Or are you starting to realize you’re human after all? You were a cold, calculated killer once upon a time, but recently it feels like you’re just acting like one. The mere sight of you barely warrants a sneeze nowadays it seems, never mind an orgasm. You look like Jason Snow, you wrestle like him, but aside from that you’re unrecognizable. Rexton William Bader reeks of your desperation.

Bring me the Original Villain.

Our last fight was a privilege. A once in a lifetime opportunity, years in the making, to stand across from you in the same ring as your equal. Despite the outcome, I was deemed worthy of the fight. I consider that an honor. But this time is different, this fight is pivotal. Now that I know my worth, I have a duty to overcome because of what lies beyond; a shot at becoming a three-time Universal champion. I hunger for it as I hunger for the fleeting Unicorn flesh of the Tag titles. I’ll be ready for you this time, I’m taking nothing for granted. This giant’s going to grind your bones to make his bread.

Fee-fi-fum-fo, I smell the blood of Jason Snow.