The Spirit Room or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bash

Liking my brother is easy.

Who doesn’t like a smiling stuntbro in bright colors doing flippy flops?

Loving him, however? Being someone who cares about his well-being and doesn't think it's 'so badass' when his neck gets smashed into a ring pole?

“Don’t gimme that face, Dio.”

That can be a challenge.

It’s the middle of Summer, and instead of anywhere else, we’re on a burning sidewalk in Florida on the stupidest quest this Hero has ever taken me on.

We came to this godforsaken state for a good reason, I swear.  A library in the Greater Orlando area had lost funding for hosting a Drag Queen story hour. A local charity reached out and asked if the Heroes wanted to "stand guard" at one of the Drag events as a kind of fundraiser/stunt. And you know how much my brother loves a stunt.

I booked it, figuring it'd been a tough Alias reign for Bash. The Alias Title made his name and wrecked his body, especially his left arm, though he hid the pain well. I begged him to just drop out of the Almasy, take the time to heal, and focus on his title shot, but Bash never gives up. It’s one of his worst qualities.

So, my stupid past-self thought: let's have him do some charity! Go to Disney! Unwind a bit, it'll be great!

I swear, he was hyped at first, until I broke it to him that they couldn't actually fight anyone. All he had to do was sell overpriced autographs for charity and smile for the cameras. Normally, he loves that kinda thing. But the look he gave me when I told him, like I'd just spit in his Gatorade? I knew today wouldn't go smoothly.

"It's almost 1, Bash, we're gonna be late for the thing! You know the charity event for the queer youth deprived of literature."

"Yeah, yeah." He waves me off.

"They're deprived, Bash."

He ignores me and bashes his phone as if that'll make Google Maps work.

"We're not gonna be late," Bash says with the confidence of a man who 100% knows he's gonna be late.

"Marie-Rosa said this woman channelled Tita Jenni and cleansed her aura in fifteen minutes," He continues. "That's a better rate than you're gonna get in L.A. Apparently, she's the real deal."

"I hate that you two are talking again."

Marie-Rosa, our sister, is a nurse, a badass, and a certified woo-woo who always brings out the woo-iest side of Bash. Their making amends has been amazing for the family and disastrous for Bash's knowledge of science.

"Also, are you casually telling me our sister spoke with the dead?"

Bash shrugs. "She needed Jenni's cable password."

"And she got it?" I ask, pressing X to doubt.

"Like I said, real deal! Hey! That's it!" He runs up to and points to a fold-up cardboard sign on the sidewalk that reads: Miss Leonora's Spirit Room: Psychic, Medium, Aura Cleanser.

Bash smiles. I'm in hell.

---

 Bash and I sit across from each other in Miss Leonora's tiny parlour. New age music lulls in the background while lush purple curtains block the sun. There’s a table in the center with a demonic red tablecloth atop which lay a small crystal ball, about the size of the one Bowie played handsie with in Labyrinth.

The walls are lined with shelves littered with crystals and shiny baubles, as well as some family pictures. There’s a young woman in many of them, I assume to be Miss Leonora’s daughter. She’s so young. I wonder if she knows her mother’s a con artist.

The door opens, and the thought vanishes in an instant. Instead of Miss Cleo, Leonora looks more like she just stepped out of Euphoria. Young, vibrant, bouncing as she walks, like we did when we had hope for the future.

“Hello!” She says in an excited voice, brimming with nervous energy.

“Hello Miss, my name is Sebastian and I have an appoi-”

"I predict I'm about to disappoint you," she says, laughing awkwardly. "A bit of psychic humor for you there, uh, yeah, sorry, there are no ghosts in the Spirit Room today. I don’t know what’s keeping them away, but my channeling service is closed.”

“What??” Bash says. “Seriously? What if we waited a bit? We’ve got time.”

“No, we don’t,” I say sharply, and turn my attention to the psychic.

"Uh, can you do it on the road?"

"Oh, no," Miss T laughs. "I cannot practice my art outside of my Spirit Room."

“Hey, I have that Michelle Branch album."

"Dio!"

"It's okay," She says. "I do too. But a real Spirit Room is where a person feels most secure. Usually filled with significant mementos  from their life.” She smiles. “Most folks just call it ‘home’ but my name is cooler.”

“Can you still give him a reading or clean up his aura? He never dusts it, and it’s aggravating my sinuses.” I say.

Bash gives me a death glare, but she seems to think I'm funny.

“Yes, of course, at a discounted price, since I won’t be able to channel your father today.” She says, as if she didn't just drop a bomb on the room.

Oh fuck you, Bash. I think. My heart sinks into a pot of anger and starts to stew. I knew your Daddy issues were bad, bro, but you didn't have any right to drag me into it. Did that that Red Scare to the turnbuckle permanently scrambled your eggs, asshole!???

“Fine, I guess.” He says to Miss L, disappointed as if he has any right to be.

"You wanna talk to Dad??" I yell.

"I knew you wouldn't understand."

“ Of course I don't! Jesus fucking Christ, he was a piece of shit. And now that he's finally out of our lives, you want to summon him from the beyond? Why!!??"

“Because I’m a vindictive fuck, Dio! And I need to know if he saw me."

"What?"

"I need to know… if Dad saw me as a champion. If he sat in a flea-ridden motel with a half-cooked TV, watching a son he didn’t want cheered by thousands. Did he hear the fans chant my name? Did he feel the love each and every one of those people who don’t even know my real name gave me, that he never could? I need to hear it from his own hell-soaked mouth."

Bash is shaking with rage. He gets up and starts pacing to work off the energy. It's not working.

"I hate him Dio, I hate him so much. And now he’s not around to hate anymore, so what am I supposed do?? There’s no where for all this, this-this bile, to go so it’s been building inside me slowly, like some parasite building a nest of spit and shit. This hate, this rage, it’s gotta go somewhere, and I wanted it to go to him instead of anyone I loved, like I’m doing now! Does that make fucking sense for you?"

A heavy silence falls over The Spirit Room.

Seb's phone lights up with TAL's name. He takes it outside and leaves me alone with the nervous psychic / medium / aura cleanser, who seems shaken and confused.

Then I have a terrible idea.

---

(A Transcript of the Call between Sebastian Gold and the Anglo Luchador.)

TAL: Bash? Where are you? I got a line of kids here, and I’m not signing your merch.

Sebastian Gold: But it hasn’t even started yet!

TAL: Fans lined up early! And some of them drove a long way to see us, buddy.

Sebastian Gold: I know, I know, just…stall. You think you can fake-guard the Story Hour alone for like fifteen minutes?

TAL: Actually, some guy just showed up who doesn’t seem to have a kid. I don’t like the look he’s giving us.

Sebastian Gold: Really??

TAL: Nevermind, he’s leaving.

Sebastian Gold: (Disappointed) Oh, alright. Get there when I can.

(End of Call)

---

A few days ago, the Prime docs cleared Bash to wrestle in the Almasy, but these are the same people who let Chandler Tsonda and Ivan Stanislav tear each other apart in a barbed-wire cage, so forgive me if I lack confidence.

You know, that match has been haunting me, like a ghost. The image of a bloody Tsonda, ripping apart his hands to climb to the top of the cage, the crowd cheering. To the fans, it was legendary; I had to turn off the TV so I wouldn’t puke. I could only see Bash’s face instead of Chandler’s. Heard the crowd chant his name instead of his. In that moment, I didn’t need to be a psychic to see the future, to know that that was gonna be Bash one day.

Whether it’s in a barbed wire cage or not, he’s gonna spend the rest of his life taking bigger and bigger stunts, and I'm afraid to death all I’ll be able to do is watch. Hopefully, Bash understands one day.

The Golden boy walks back into the room and Miss T invites him to sit back down. “I can give you discounted reading of your future in the mists of the ball, if you like.”

“Fine, go for it,” Bash says, flatly.

She concentrates on the clear crystal ball. She closes her eyes. The lights dim ever so slightly. Nice parlor trick. She’s good.

“I see…I see a man, not you. While you glow with a golden hue, this man’s aura sparkles like diamonds.”

Her body begins to shake. Her eyes open wide like saucers, only the whites exposed. Damn she’s committed. Go for that Oscar.

“He approaches with violence in his heart, and you, the one who glows gold does the same. I see the two figures run and NO!”

Her body starts contorting like a woman possessed.

“The Gold has run his body to ground. Then one of Diamonds breaks him apart, bone by bone, tendon by tendon. The golden glow fades. The crowds that once cheered for a Hero fall silent, for their Hero shall never fight again.”

Her body relaxes, her eyes return to normal. She reaches out a quivering hand to Bash.

“Thus is your future, but you can still pr-I’m sorry I can’t do this.” She says, dropping character.

“I can't do this. Mr Gold, I’m a huge fan. You changed my life.”

Ah shit.

“A few months ago, I decided that if Nobody’s Heroes was brave enough to stand up to the Red Army, then I could be brave enough to drop out of Harvard Law and become a full-time psychic / medium / aura cleanser."

"That's so dope," Bash says.

"I can't lie to you!” She yells.

Damn. Seb picked the one honest psychic in Florida. Damn, bro, I wasn't familiar with your game.

“It's okay, I figured," Bash says, as gently as he can.

“You knew I was lying?"

“Yeah….I’m sorry, it was little..much. Even for me. You were trying so hard though. Great commitment.”

“Then, you must know that your brother only had the best intentions, Daytona could seriously injure you and it’s clear your shoulder has-”

“DIO PUT YOU UP TO THIS.”

His focus spins to me. Oh no. He’s pissed.

“YOU PAID A PSYCHIC TO LIE TO ME?”

“Yeah! Isn’t that what everyone does???”

“I’m so, so sorry,” Miss L says, mortified. “I wouldn’t have taken the money but my lights are about to get shut off-”

A ring of Bash’s phone saves us all. He squeezes the phone like a grenade and points to me with a shaking finger.

"I need to go outside before I say something I'll regret. Don't follow me."

He leaves the Spirit Room without a word.

I walk over to Miss L.

“You okay?” I ask.

“No one talks about how hard it is to be an honest psychic/medium/aura cleanser," she says, her voice trembling. "Like, I turn people away when the spirits are silent. Everyone wants an answer from me, but sometimes someone's life just sucks and there’s nothing I can do about it. Apparently, that’s not good for business.. I wish I was better at this.”

“What do you foresee for me?”

She gives me a quick up-and-down.

“Your life sucks and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“I appreciate the honesty. This time."

"I'm so sorry. I'll refund your bribe."

"It's okay, keep it. Keep your lights on." I turn away, head towards the door and hear angry shouting in a Bash-like voice. I sigh and turn back to Miss L.

But the stupid joke I was gonna make flies out of my head.

She's slumped over the table and shaking. The crystal ball rolls onto the floor and breaks.

I call for help.

And lucky for me, there is one ghost in the Spirit Room today.

---

(A transcript of the second call between The Anglo Luchador and Sebastian Gold)

TAL (sound of screaming children in background): You have an ETA buddy?? I (indiscernible screaming) a lot more than ex(ahhhhhhhhh) you know?

Sebastian Gold: Do you think I should drop out of the Almasy?

TAL: WHAT?

Sebastian Gold: I know! It’s ridiculous.

TAL: No, I can’t hea-(ahhhhhhhh)

Sebastian Gold: My brother tried to pull some buuuulllshit. I can’t stand it TAL, he still treats me like I’m twelve, like I can’t take care of myself! Especially since we buried Dad. It’a driving me insane, TAL.

TAL: (indiscernible yelling mixed with static.)

Sebastian Gold: And while I’ve got you, I’m gettin’ real sick of people acting like I’m some helpless underdog against Daytona. Do people really think that man’s better now just cause there’s more of him? They really think he’s ‘changed’ somehow, it’s ridiculous. When I first got to Prime, nobody could bring that man down. He was undefeated, unbeatable. But he wasn't. All that was just a facade. And it doesn’t surprise me, there’s only so much cocaine any bloodstream will tolerate. And when that falls, and the only support you have left is the Whoresmen? Well, if my life was that sad, I’d go to Juicetown too.

Sebastian Gold: I bet Daytona thinks he’s put work in on himself, made himself stronger, but I’ve never seen him weaker. Lumbering around in his new body, still working out how to carry the weight. Meanwhile, the soul inside still rots. Still aches for life. Daytona was away from the Whoresmen; he could’ve tended to himself with care, but instead he chose more poison. Like a queen painting her face with lead, that façade will fade too, revealing the rot underneath.

Sebastian Gold: Come Revival 71, the people will see that between the two of us, I am the one who’s transformed. One year ago, I was getting my ass kicked in front of five people in my grand “indie” debut. Flash-forward less than a year later: I’ve got the Alias Title in my arms and two of the best bros a wrestler could ask for by his side. I ran the Belmont gauntlet AND the Alias gauntlet, the only person to do that before me was CORAL FUCKING AVALON! Daytona Diamonds needs to face up to the fact that he’s not gonna be the big surprise at the Almasy. No. That’s gonna be Sebastian Gold fighting his way from the bottom to the top once again. An underdog yet again, despite going half a year undefeated. You believe this shit, TAL?

TAL: (silence)

Sebastian Gold: TAL?

TAL: (silence)

Sebastian Gold: Fuck, how long ago did he hang u-

(end of call)

---

I walk outside to a seething Bash yelling something into the phone. He hangs up and spins towards me, all anger and pent-up energy.

"YOU HAD NO RIGHT!" He yells.

I stare at him with empty eyes. He doesn't know what I've just seen. I'm not sure if I know what I just saw.

"I know. Let's talk about it on the way to the fundraiser. They'll need you there." I say, tone flat and knowing.

"Why are you speaking weird?"

I shrug. "Because I just learned something new."

"And what's that??" he yells.

"He saw you. Saw it all." Bash shuts up. His mouth hangs open in a silent, 'How?' I walk past him toward where we're parked.

"We'll talk about it on the way."

---

(A transcript of the interaction between a supposedly possessed Miss Gertrude Leonara and Dio Sebastián as best he can remember it.)

(Miss Leonara is slumped over the table and shaking. I begin to dial 911. Suddenly, she sits up and speaks in a voice that's not he rown)

Leonara (in a low, inhuman voice): Get me a beer, son.

Dio: That's not funny, Miss.

Leonara: Wasn't making a joke. Sit down when your old man is talking, Dio.

Dio: What...

Leonara: SIT DOWN.

(I sit down. My ones feel disconnected from each other. Like they're floating in shock. I can only say:)

Dio: D-Dad...?

Leonara: Who else? Speaking like this fucking sucks, now tell me what you wanna know.

Dio: I...I don't want to know anything it's-it's Bani that-

Leonara: I saw him. I saw him win and I was proud of him. Boy was tough thanks to me. Tell me he can hate me all he wants; I'm the one who made him a champion. But that's not what you want to know, Dio.

Dio: Did you think it was fun to hurt people?

Leonara: Doesn't everyone? It's a dog-eat-dog world, dio. Don't be mad at the wolf for enjoying the kill.

Dio: Right. And Bash is a killer?

Leonara: Like you never were.

Dio: Then, how do I stop him from becoming you?

(silence)

(silence)

(silence)

Leonara: I thought you'd never ask.

(end of page)

---

Did I just casually speak to the dead?

Bet your ass I did. Or maybe I got conned. I'll never know. I'm never stepping foot in Florida again.

I don't tell Bash everything on the ride to the library. There's too much to process.  For now, I tell him that Dad saw him win the title on a flea-ridden motel's half-cooked television. I tell him that he's filled with regret for kicking him out. And how he couldn't stand to see Sebastian succeed without him.

Then Bash gets a text from TAL to hurry his ass up and I figure that's enough lying for today.

TAL's text said that a group of guys were gathering outside the library with a megaphone. Bash's eyes come alive, and I see what Dad said was true. That's a wolf who just sniffed prey.

---

The Story Hour is a bad vibes zone by the time we arrive. While we were being late, a group of six men gathered outside the library and started yelling things into a megaphone that I won't repeat. It's always a small group with a fucking megaphone.

The kids screaming for autographs have been shepherded inside and huddle nervously around a Drag Queen dressed like Cinderella. From what I can see through the window. Ms. Cindy is powering through her story hour, as if the megaphone didn't exist.

TAL stands at the library door, a real-ass Guard at the Gates and probably the only reason these assholes couldn't shut the place down. We should have been here sooner.

Or maybe we arrived at exactly the right time.

I park and grab Bash's arm before he's able to exit. I meet TAL's eyes and give him a nod. The Luchador runs into the library, and immediately, shades start being drawn. The kids don't need to see what's about to happen.

Bash turns to me like a little kid who just heard the jingle of an ice cream truck.

"Really?" He asks. Stars in his eyes.

"Really," I say. "I'm gonna stay in the car as your getaway driver, and TAL's gonna get all the kids to lie to the cops. It's been a rough few months, Bash. You deserve a vacation. Go get 'em, tiger."

Bash throws on a rainbow version of his gold headband. He cracks his knuckles, exits the car, and gives the megaphone men a wolf’s whistle. The Megaphone goes silent and Bash calls the leader a name in Tagalog that doesn’t have a direct translation, but roughly means “Man whose dick is so trash, you can’t throw it away because it would be an insult to the dumpster.” It’s a beautiful language.

The six men surround Bash and look at him as if they were wolves themselves. That facade cracks with the first man’s jaw.

And for the first time, I see it: the beauty. The way Sebastian weaves, dodges, and strikes with the precision of a craftsman and the passion of an artist.

I get it now, I think as the group leader's teeth go flying from his mouth.

Violence is your art.

And the ring is your Spirit Room.

When you’re cracking ribs,

breaking noses,

flying higher than I ever could dream...

You’re home.