The “ok” after “Murder Is The One True Solution” (Bird Son)

It is so easy

to crank your shit to 11

push the pedal through the floor

and say Be Damned with all else, send the entire French lizard ass forth

double barrels

plow plow

when it’s the Anglue Gluechador or the Max Kael.

It is so easy

to kick the hornet’s nest

and say, “Lo,

Behold,

and Devour”

when it’s someone you megaloathe

or someone who’s taken something from you,

real or perceived,

because you would have been all in anyway

with or without me.

Their accolades seem less scary,

their talent so easy to push aside,

the burden of imagining either one as an actual human being

is lifted

when they are bastard people

who deserve it,

who deserve you

(and me).

And don’t get me wrong,

pushing your shit to 11 is still plenty necessary;

you saw what just happened to your friend Hayes

and your friend Joe…

it doesn’t take much anymore

when the stakes are this high

and the competition is this ferocious.

The Almasy is a months-long tightrope

across true skyscrapers,

a titanic event in the history of professional wrestling

where almost everyone will fall -

everyone who looks down at the sheer drop below

or fears walking forward with speed

or carries a doubt at all

is doomed.

Anything but your best

(which in your case, is your worst)

is a risk I refuse to allow you to take on,

because anything but your best

(your worst)

does wrong by me,

by Phil,

by you,

and by the glorious destination

we so thoroughly crave:

to L’Uni.

To Cecilworth.

And perhaps, a throne,

or an executiveship,

or its equivalence

(it’s all a bit ambiguous)

(Ambiglueity)

in the hierarchy of a bunch of glue friends 

who stick together

and who decided that you,

the sole flagbearer for a Gluey revolution for such a long time,

Phil’s chosen weapon,

would be the Red Power Ranger

to Farthington’s Green

(then White after season 2),

a fiery lizard lieutenant,

and that you would all follow his lead

instead of yours.

…

I wonder now

at this juncture

how easy it will be to turn your shit to 11

when instead of a bastard who deserves it,

or a notorious Old clinging to his place in PRIME

with all the fervor

and surprising strength

of a toddler with his favorite stuffy…

if, instead of someone you naturally want to strangle,

you were scheduled to face a “cool bro”

who gave a gift to your buddy Joe that one time,

who was around the Glue Boiz a lot these days

(a surprising amount, tbh),

and is even in the group chat.

(Gloup chat.)

It’s an interesting test

(for me, specifically)

of your true capabilities…

Anglue was hated,

Max was hated,

and now, besides you, there are 6 people remaining in this tournament

for whom your feelings could be described as anywhere

from “can’t be bothered to care,”

to “have some heated history.”

to “Super Hate”;

and then,

there’s the Miracle Man.

…

With Joe gone,

and Hayes gone,

this is a critically important dress rehearsal for me,

the kind you sell tickets for

and open to the public for all to see

to build hype

to create a buzz

to show people “This Cannot Be Missed”;

this match

against the Miracle Man

is the only one you’ll get against someone you tolerate,

or even kind of like,

until this train reaches its final destination

and you’re put face to face with a man you like so much more than Steve,

a man who’s fought and laughed by your side for years,

a man with two Drippin’ Rooms.

…

Cecilworth probably thought he’d never have to fight you,

and vice versa, for a long time.

It’s good you succumbed to me.

It’s good that Steve is here, now, in this important hour

to give you a taste of what it will be like

to stand across the ring against a friend

and know, deep within your cold guts

that the way this night has to end

is by collecting

his neck.

—--

FLAMBERGE felt like a bit of a hermit over the last few weeks. This was a side-effect of an intentional choice; he had decided to mostly hunker down in safe, isolated, known spaces given the fairly intense dissociations he’d started to experience (though it must be said - given those dissociations, it’s a real win to correctly identify any sort of “feeling” correctly.) He had no immediate plans to change anything about it. And then he looked at how bouncy his legs were.

He was sitting upright in the “master bed” (aka, the only bed) of his Vegas flat, and his eyes began to wander. The wandering was the real decider that no, no no, this is no longer an acceptable situation; because the wandering revealed absolutely nothing of interest in the whole apartment.

Not one piece of art, not one plant, not one cool view out the window; beige on beige, the trappings of a 21 year old rookie who was new to the country that never caught up to the 25 year old megastar he became.

He thought about whether it was time to get rid of this place, maybe move to the Big Glue House full-time - but no, that’s a workplace, not a home. And moreso, moving would require movers, strangers who would haul all his stuff to this Big Glue building that’s hard to explain to the layman (what with the vats and the mantles and the second-floor hammocks). This was also an unacceptable thing for FLAMBERGE to consider these days because “ew, people.”

There was another solution - surely, Las Vegas, a city known for being an absolute assault on the eyes at night, would have places that could sell you things to look at in your home.

And so, after anxiously bouncing his leg another half hour, scrolling through his phone, and checking in a few more times with the ominously quiet Glue Chat, he finally grabbed his keys and wallet and bailed.

He realized as he exited that he didn’t have a specific destination set out yet - but, it was too late now. If he didn’t continue putting one foot in front of the other, he would be stuck in that blank beige apartment for several more hours, experiencing an untold number of spicy mental health events, until his leg would be forced to stop bouncing either via Rosé-Induced Slumber or rolling around on the ground with a cheeseburger.

“Art,” he said to himself resolutely. “I require art.”

And so, he pulled out his phone and searched Google Maps for “Art Shop Near Me”. He was already down the hallway stairs and heading out of the building proper by the time results popped up. He decided to trust fate and boldly copied the address of the first result into his Lyft app.

Marty with 4.8 stars promptly pulled up 3 minutes later in the advertised silver Nissan Altima. “Thank god,” FLAMBO thought, “this one’s not a talker.”

Julien found it interesting - every time he rode a Lyft in a major American city, the driver would try to find the local hip hop/r&b radio station, or they would hastily throw in some instructions to Spotify; and when it was a very white dude like Marty, that almost always meant Drake. Marty was a Drake driver. This brought Julien a great deal of secondhand embarrassment, which honestly served as a helpful distraction from what had otherwise been a lot of beige-related dread.

Seven minutes later, FLAMBO reached the destination. His eyes grew wide as he saw the sight in front of him - this wasn’t some local home decor sort of shop. This was an art dealer.

An expensive one.

As casually as he could, Julien took a look up and down the street he now found himself on, hoping that maybe life would throw him a bone and that a lower-key shop was somewhere around the corner - but no. So consumed by Requiring Art, Julien neglected to scrutinize Google for even a second when it gave him this address.

This was a rich part of town.

And was getting recognized.

After all, FLAMBERGE is among the most famous and accomplished wrestlers alive, and PRIME’s Vegas roots run deep. He also wasn’t exactly blending in - while his walls may be blank, Julien’s closet is absolutely lit, and he absolutely looked the part of Wealthy Superstar Athlete About Town.

Julien watched himself take a couple of selfies with fans - huh, that’s not like him, not unless they’re kids - and he watched himself pretend to enjoy the interactions he was having with the public. He then bwommed back into experiencing the world from behind his actual eyes as the owner, or the manager, or whoever this well-dressed woman was that came out of this art dealership stepped outside and expressed sincere gratitude that “Mr. Flamberjay” took the time to visit. He felt compelled to enter this bonkers place, this pretentious boutique that didn’t even have price tags on display because “if you have to ask, you can’t afford it”, if only to keep up with the expectations of these locals who have been graced with celebrity.

For Julien, it may be Monday, or Thursday, or Splaturday, but for some of these people it would be a day they’d mark on their calendar: “remember that time we saw the Neck Collector walk into the most expensive art dealer in town?” “I wonder what he bought?” He had to keep up with appearances. No need for them to understand what was brewing underneath. What’s always there, brewing. Succumbing really allowed him to work on his mask.

It’s become pretty convincing to a lot of people.

FLAMBERGE stepped through the glass doors and out of his depth. A short man in a tailored black suit approached him with champagne - the real stuff, not even pink - and the woman who greeted him outside spoke.

“Of course, we have often found that the pillars of the Las Vegas community view the pieces in our collection as both breathtaking and culturally significant…”

It occurred to Julien in that moment that perhaps she had been talking at him for much longer than he had realized.

But he had already tuned her out again.

There was a gigantic painting standing in front of him, and he couldn’t help but be overwhelmed in its scope or its size.

Its absurdity.

He struggled to take it all in, or to even process what it was supposed to be in the first place.

And then he found the placard next to its ornate coppery frame.

It was called “Bird Son,”

And he had to have it.

—--

I started a little fire back here.

Fires happens all the time,

and oftentimes you’re aware,

so even if you had the capability of being mad at me

(which I’m not sure you do anymore)

I don’t think it would be fair this time

even if

this one’s become tricky.

And listen.

It’s not that I want to be secretive,

it’s just sometimes the fires I start

begin small

little testers

to see where we are

and then they burn out.

Little sparks

in little corners of your brain

to find out which FLAMmable bits burn the brightest

or the longest

or otherwise provide bang for my buck,

because as much fun as it is to go scorched earth on you

it’s no longer about attrition with you,

given that you’ve succumbed,

and one must always burn up unnecessary synapses

to make an omelette

(du fromage)

or so I’ve heard.

And besides:

most of the time,

these little fires burn out on their own

and even if they leave little singes

they can’t be that bad

because what are you really losing,

you child?

You’ve given me free reign,

which is great in the long term, as we are both aware,

which is why you should not be too concerned about this new fire.

…

I only alert you to it now

so that maybe, if only for this fleeting moment, you can understand who started it.

It was me,

and I’m not sorry

because it was for science.

…

Oh.

You want to know what I’m talking about.

That’s fair.

Well.

I found this really compelling piece of fuel back here.

It’s like cooking with peanut oil

at a volcano

so it’s running a little hot right now.

Don’t let it bother you too much.

In fact,

if I’m measuring this thing right,

the fire might spread

to the part of your brain that gets bothered by things in general,

so…

might just solve itself.

…

I keep coming back to a word.

It’s “interloper”.

It’s happened with the Glueminati more than once.

Someone has been allowed into the Glue inner circle

(by Cecilworth)

without you even having met them before

even once

and not only are you expected to be cool with it,

but maddeningly,

you find yourself liking the guy

for a time.

…

The first time

the interloper had a toothy dick

and his name was Tyler.

He seemed to fit the archetype of a Glue Boi to a T

until he didn’t;

he achieved monstrous goals

until he didn’t;

and along the way

he found a way to ride the coattails of the Glueminati

to enormous prestige and honor,

a legend in the making,

a wild animale dangereux, with all the mlementum in the world

until his true 

shitty

nature 

revealed itself

for good.

And then…

Well.

He’s in a hole somewhere

pissing into his mouth,

the zoo exhibit every new visitor gets warned about

until he fades into Forever obscurity

because in PRIME -

no -

in the Glueminati -

Interlopers Get Got.

…

And now

consider

that perhaps

the interloper is a jelly man

who’s fought along the Glueminati a few times now.

…

Why?

…

I’m forcing you to consider the possibility

that not only is Steve Harrison another interloper

but that perhaps he’s even more dangereux than the first one;

because he’s good at being nice,

or at least putting that face forward.

He got your tag team partner a gift.

YOUR partner.

A glassy bong or something. But to Joe, a jolf club.

You know that man. You’ve probably jolfed with him more than any other man has,

and knows the significance.

Imagine another man

giving your husband 

a fancy watch or something

that cost real money

muchos Euros

while you stand there like a giftless idiot

forced to witness this bald handsome jellyfish

the Miracle Man

earn brownie points with a group of people

who are supposed to be YOUR people.

OUR people.

MY people.

Intolerable.

…

If his intentions are pure, then they would align with Phil’s,

which is to say,

he would understand the trail that the Glueminati must blaze,

the outcome that is required,

the sacrifice that any mindless spineless creature like a jellyfish

(or a Harrison)

should willingly make

in order to enable the elemental forward charge

upon which we now find ourselves.

However,

I suspect

the Miracle Man sees himself as the main character of his own story,

Le Protagoniste,

and that he has every interest

of discarding you,

discarding Glue

as a snake sheds its skin,

revealing some other new horror,

some other beast with eyes affixed on the greatest prize the world offers

(L’Uni),

because like toothy-dicked TAB,

he sits across from you

and he imagines a world that exists beyond you

and wonders if it might be a better one.

…

Do you disagree?

After all, he’s been nothing but cool to you

to your face.

He’s never thrown a fist your way

on purpose.

Perhaps you think this is a reach,

or that Steve Harrison is all in when it comes to Glue-related matters

and that he really is one of you.

He did beat Cancer Jiles once, after all.

That’s a net positive.

…

Steve Harrison,

that wily motherfucker,

came to the Guite,

your sanctified space,

a space that was Woppshorked several times before he ever stepped a toe into the murderer’s row that is the ReVival era of PRIME,

and felt welcome.

So welcome, that he could look you in the eye,

You, the Neck Collecting You, Potential Future Adversary You, the Youngest Legend Alive, the Scariest Draw In Any Match Scenario You,

and felt safe enough

to give one of your closest friends a gift

and wish you “good luck”

as if it would be a good thing for you to win

because that would mean

Steve Harrison versus FLAMBERGE -

in his mind

a good thing.

…

How do you feel about his intentions now?

—--

It was a minor miracle that Bird Son was able to make it inside FLAMBERGE’s flat at all; though, distressingly, he realized pretty quickly that he had no idea where (or how) he was going to display this enormous beauty.

Bird Son comfortably measures 9 feet across diagonally, not including the frame, and something FLAMBERGE realized after the delivery was complete was that he had no idea where the studs were in his apartment.

As a result, for a few weeks, this enormous painting remained on the ground, leaned over and propped up against the biggest wall he could manage, which was in his living room.

…

But how to describe Bird Son?

There were many ornate details that covered every inch of this thing, and in a vacuum, this justified the $13,000 price tag that Julien dropped for this thing - but stepping back from this monster provided no clarity at all.

There was a man - a big, bald man - naked, artfully posed in the fetal position, face in absolute horror. The artist splayed some comic book style text in a bubble above the man’s head, which read “MY HUMAN CHILD SUCKS.” In another quadrant of the painting, in line with the bald man’s gaze, was a creature with the arms and legs of a man and the head of a woodpecker. There were empty egg shells strewn about, and the woodpecker man seemed to be going about his own business across a lawn of yellow hay.

There’s more, but FLAMBERGE can’t take it all in. Not all at once. It’s hard to imagine that any man could.

Some would find this “artistic expression” to be pointless, or even grotesque - and with the hot veneer of “Suddenly In Public, Brave Mask On” slowly fading away, FLAMBERGE came to powerfully regret this purchase.

Had Julien been of sound mind and not been bum-rushed by the prospect of becoming an Art Person in the throes of a nigh-innumerable number of mental breakdowns, Bird Son might not have ever made it into his home.

But it did, and it was there, and he came to deeply understand that these sort of art dealers don’t do returns.

So he considered it for what it was.

…

And he thought Joe might get a kick out of it.

He pulled his phone back out and started texting.

—--

FLAMBERGELePro: ...I think I have to fuck up the Steve. Bad.

FLAMBERGELePro: …..sorry.

FLAMBERGELePro: …………..but, you know. Murder Is The One True Solution.

smoothjoecool: ok

…

—--