Everything Is Happening Again At Me

His feet were walking in an unusual meter that morning, ever since he got off the plane.

He touched down in Heathrow and for reasons outside of his control, Julien Lavigne’s feet seemed unable to maintain a steady and even rhythm.

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Every handful of steps, his pace would shift, his vision would blur for a moment, his head would feel light - something about coming back to England, here, now, was giving his feet this uncontrollable 7/8 time signature, an irregular beat his mind and spirit might choose to take in clashing opposition to the feet beneath him.

The last time he felt like this, it was at his Glue Boiz birthday bash after many (many) rounds of Gins and Tonic with the man he called Mustache - but he couldn’t blame alcohol for it this time. He actually slept quite a bit - though airplane wheels may have touched concrete during a REM cycle.

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As he floated foggily towards the chartered car that would take him northwest to Farthington Manor, he felt a deep gratitude towards not having to keep his feet beneath him much further. His heart beat a little heavier in his chest, his face felt hot - by the time he took his seat, he had the dizzy spins of a man who’d normally already spent a few hours in the Drippin’ Room. A sauna with branches and rocks can, and has, taken this lizard places.

It took him no time at all to burrow down to the root cause of why his physiognomy felt so out of whack - he didn’t tell Cecilworth he was coming. And he felt this deep ringing ping in his gut that there may be a time, one day, where he won’t be permitted access to the Manor grounds.

If the voice that summons the Lizard King were to have its way, a clash of Glue Princes would not only be inevitable, but functionally necessary for the Glueminati to persist into the future.

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At this point, Julien felt sure that his mind was intentionally fucking with him, his body only just now sort of kind of getting the hang of the previous rhythm of the world, only to hurkshift the sands beneath his feet again.

Julien mostly leaned deeply into his seat, slouching, keeping his eyes focused on a single spot as much as he could - he needed to be there, at the Manor, certainly - but he also needed solitude. It’s been a difficult balance, and the Large Hadron Collider At CERN-level fight-or-flight machinery driving this husk of a Frenchman had not seemed inclined to slow down or ease into a goddamned thing as it careens this Neck Collector forward.

The car arrived at Farthington Manor, and he was greeted by Hank - a lovely giant fellow who very recently had his back against…

…

—--

Yeah, that was pretty great

because you see, Rose

may be

like

the ONE woman you’ve felt genuine attraction to in years,

the one type of girl who could stop you from being a 6 on the Kinsey scale -

daring, dark, determined,

vengeful, hurt,

a natural bitch like you, 

you wounded little bird,

a rebuilding project

or just a project, period - 

but she was a fucking snake in the grass from day one.

She manipulated you

into believing she was your friend

into believing that she saw things the way you saw them

that you could guide her

when actually

she wanted you as an “in”

because who knows Cecilworth Farthington better than you?

Her “nemesis”,

a nemesis that everyone knows

would rip both of her arms off,

as if she were a Cardboard Dan Ryan

and her limbs were mementos

of a fun little trip

to whatever town

…

Hank maybe knows Cecilworth better than you,

but, better than that,

Hank’s just a good boy

who does a good job

and doesn’t always need to be burdened with details.

“Dusk’s Kid Bad,”

that’s all the instruction he needed

because he’s a good boy.

DUNK DUNK.

—--

…Rose, Hank had his back against Rose.

Julien suspected Hank would be on the grounds today, what with the amount of pool time he had earned for his heroic actions.

As far as Julien knew, Hank would be the only person who would know that he was in town that day, whichever day it was. Tuesday, Thursday? Is it morning, or noon? What are time zones?

Questions his scattered senses wouldn’t allow him to pursue.

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Something about seeing Hank, and realizing he’s legitimately wearing black swim trunks and is preparing for a delightful afternoon in the deep end, settled Julien down a bit. His body felt less out of control - it had felt this specific polyrhythm before, earlier that day. He could ride the wave, if even for a bit.

Julien watched Hank toss a handful of weighted rubber seahorses that sank to the very bottom of the Farthington Manor pool; as Hank gracefully dove in, Julien started to feel his feet underneath his body properly. He could roll with this feeling; his lurches and anxieties and his doom-projecting could crash over him like a wave, or he could surf along its ridges, and he figured out how to have that choice again, if for a moment; either way was fine as far as the voice was concerned, and thus, as far as Julien was concerned.

…

…

Julien felt like he just woke up.

He woke up?

His eyes were playing tricks on him. Or his ears.

His symptoms were expanding.

Julien would still sometimes find himself watching himself, from up close or from afar, no longer in control of the words pouring out of his apparent mouth - but now, every now and then, he began to start losing chunks of time.

He found himself on the first tee of the Farthington Manor Jolf Course, a jhole he’s visited a dozen times or more by now. He was alone this time - no Joe, not even a fabby - that was an unspoken part about this entire trip, after all. FLAMBERGE needed to be on the grounds in solitude and really absorb what he’s trying to do.

Win the Almasy. Win the Universal Championship. And, if all goes to plan - become Phil Atken’s Number One.

…

The Sand Wedje was in his hands. Not normally a jolf club for the tee box, but it’s the only one Julien could always guarantee to be a clean swing. He thwocked the jolf ball, and it occurred to him, out of the blue, why the jolfing part of this impromptu visit was so deeply important:

This dumb, crazy, violent, hilarious “sport” might be the last outlet in Julien Lavigne’s life that doesn’t have any stakes.

How far did that drive (jrive?) go? Did you score a 7 or the square root of negative one? Does it matter?

Sometimes, a person just has to exist in the elements as they hit things with other things. It’s physically therapeutic while providing absolutely nothing of value to one’s brainspace.

Exactly how the voice likes it.

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…

It takes Julien a second, walking between jolf shots, but he gets there.

This polyrhythm is equally dumb and familiar. He can walk.

—--

The thing that’s shifting these beats

within you, without you

is a fun part of our ride together

that I like to call

“Everything That Ever Was Is Happening Again At You.”

Catchy.

…

I was there with you the first time

when you seemed like the scariest athlete alive, invincible, undefeated for a year

and I saw how you tossed it all away

in the pursuit of something called

“Health”

and so much of what happened back then, in 2023, is happening again

at you.

…

Colossus was a wash, we both remember that;

it was your fault, you already know

but Colossus is behind us now;

it is ahead of us, also.

…

And everything that ever was is happening again

at you.

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…welcome back, I suppose

to whatever this is,

some grasp at control

even if it just means bouncing your leg a lot

and hitting a jolf ball as hard as you can

towards wherever.

This is when it got hard for you last time,

when a part of you questioned whether it was worth it

the physical toll

the threads I tug

or the scorch marks

and you thought that maybe, just maybe

you could have your cake and eat it too,

you fat fuck.

…

Thank jod for Henri Lavigne

and that poor dumb kid he had

with that druggie, or whatever

(is she your aunt?)

(actually hang on, I never took the time to heat up these particular broilers)

(should you have sent her cards by now?)

(do you know her name?)

(you don’t, do you? you never chased it down?)

(you buried the whole thing down)

(good boy)

because if it wasn’t for him,

I don’t know that you would have ever fully succumbed to me.

You might have believed in the good of some of these people without Henri.

You might have believed in their good intentions, or found joy in small things.

(or any things.)

Thank jod for Henri Lavigne,

because now,

as you sit on the precipice

of chasing down L’Uni

(currently held by You Know Who)

everything

that ever was

is happening again

at you.

You have collected

every. FUCKING. neck.

that remains in this tournament.

Tsonda, in a record-setting moment.

Stanislav, in the greatest moment of your career so far.

And Dick. Fred Goddamn Dick.

In a night

that TECHNICALLY speaking,

you “lost”

because you kicked too much ass

in a manner that was deemed too dangereux

against an ACTUAL fat fuck.

(you know I couldn’t call you that with a straight face)

(look at those abs, god damn)

(I wish I was 25 too)

…

Fred is happening again at you.

A match against a man who is your lesser

If only because

his hair

sucks.

—--

Julien had a rush of blood hit his head very quickly, and he found himself on the putting green of jhole 3.

Where did the rest of time go? Why did he feel hyper-present now?

He took a step away from the ball and looked at the horizon. Jhole 4 was next - weird, there was a big black Ford F250 parked nearby. A big truck that could presumably do big vrooms - and he remembered that Farthington had an upcoming match of his own alongside Clay Byrd, a large man with a large dumb hat who would probably drive a large dumb truck like this.

“Shit,” he thought, concerned that someone might see him on the jlinks this morning or this evening or whatever time it was.

The fear of being seen, that seemed to amplify the blood rush in his head.

He was being taken unwillingly back to his teen years - right around the time his father had finagled his way into gaining custody of Julien.

…

Some of Julien’s friends had gotten into dying their hair into outrageous colors.

It was very “punk,” very “chic.”

(très chic, even)

Julien wanted in. His old now/new then crush, Jordan, was planning on dying their hair fire engine red, and so Julien figured a fun response would be to go blue.

He bought two boxes - one that was supposed to bleach his hair, and the other was the bluest blue he’d ever seen. A powerful blue. A statement blue.

A Nate Colton blue.

He wasn’t sure how his father would respond to the idea at all, so he kept the process hidden - he waited until Henri had finished off his last glass of wine and for the snores to shake their shared wall before Julien stepped out of his room and into the bathroom with his boxes.

He attempted the bleach.

It wasn’t until later in life that he realized that not all hair products were made for the same texture or shade of hair, and that he had unfortunately chosen a box that left his spiky black locks mustard yellow instead of bleached white.

Julien was undeterred, not knowing that his process was already doomed. He applied the Earnest To A Fault Blue dye and let it really soak in. Henri continued to be out for the count and remained oblivious to the endeavour.

Time passed. And then eventually, Julien rinsed.

Some would call it a seasick sort of green, others might call it a baby teal not yet grown into adulthood, still more might describe it as Rusty Statue of Liberty; but certainly not blue.

Julien was horrified. Not only did he hate the color that came out - this sickly sapphire, this cursed cobalt - he knew that he couldn’t show his face around his friends with this look, let alone his father.

Julien found his father’s clippers underneath the bathroom sink. Making sure to check for ongoing wall-shaking drunk-snores, Julien’s eyes leaked as he got rid of the evidence of his botch job of a hairdo.

The next morning, Henri observed his freshly-buzz-cutted son and made a note to check the trash later that day,

…Jordan’s hair had turned out great.

They wondered why Julien’s hair was so short.

…

A few weeks later, some shirts arrived for Julien at his father’s house.

They were teal and copper. Far from the bright blue heights he once chased.

Color-wise, they weren’t far off from the clippings he remembered frantically throwing away that night.

And he looked at his father. His father looked back at him, dead behind the eyes.

Of course he knew. He always knew. The voice may be an expansionist, but Henri Lavigne poured the fucking foundation.

…

…

FLAMBERGE looked Fred Dick in the eyes almost a year ago

and he saw the red hair,

Red to a fault hair.

Then he saw the Jordan jersey.

The face tattoos almost didn’t register at all.

This was a man seeking his own control, wasn’t it? This was a man who almost dared the world to say a word about how he looked, and if they did, a marble-mouthed yawp and a fist full of knuckles would come next.

God, how Julien wished that could be him.

Untethered, unbothered,

Unburdened with greater purpose.

Unrepentant about his fucking hair.

…

—--

You watch the sun go up and you watch the sun go down.

You, my cyclical son, may never find yourself

the way I find you

and I hope you understand that this is OK.

A valley of despair awaits the man who tries to find redemption in Fred Dick.

A neck was mangled once, and a neck will be mangled again;

and this nonserious

self-harming

blubberous

asshole

who spends precious minutes, hours, days, weeks of all of our lives

trying to sell the most insulting pasta I’m aware of

 can crawl in a hole,

boot up Space Jam,

and squeeze out every micrometer of ricotta he can 

out of that weird lasagna

for all I care.

Pull the thread of Fred Dick long enough

and what you’ll find

is a fake ginger

fake thug

fake wrestler

whose gift for gaffs allows him a career here.

Even if he’s not 75 years old like Anglue,

or an unknown number of years old as whichever Max Kael you fought was,

or a weird bald interloper like Steve Harrison is:

this false prophet,

this Modern Jesus selling thrift store communion

in the form of assy noodles

is an insult to you

and to Glue

and needs to be put to rest

or, at least

to the next commercial break.

…

Let it be known, FLAMBERGE

that I will never sell you anything you don’t need.

My goods are pure

and right

and just.

Or at the very least,

if you have concerns about the propriety,

I can guarantee this:

Everything I sell you,

you can use.

You don’t need to pray for us,

asking the ethers

or suggesting

that “this too shall pass.”

Know that that’s true, because it is.

This too shall pass.

Fred Dick shall pass. The Almasy shall pass. Cecilworth Farthington shall pass.

If anything won’t, it’s L’Uni. 

Once it’s yours, 

once it’s OURS,

this will be the permanent thing

the archive

the installation

the sketti that won’t forgetti

a true mark on PRIME’s history

that won’t have to be dug up later when people ask

“Hey, who was that goofy guy

with the fake red hair

that liked shitty pasta

and took a cleaver to his penis for a laugh?”

…

This too shall pasta.

—--

Julien felt the mlementum of his tee shot off the 6th tee almost send him spinning, and he jolted out of his head.

Or was it the 8th tee? The 10th? The 14th?

Julien felt himself replaying jholes in his mind - ones he played with Joe, ones he played with Cecilworth.

He found himself replaying matches in his mind - ones he had against Dick, Tsonda, Stanislav. How each of their necks felt beneath his forearm. Fat ratios.

…

Everything that ever was, was happening again, at him.

The undefeated year.

Fred Dick.

Chandler Tsonda or Ivan Stanislav.

A terrifying road to a Universal Title Match at Colossus.

A meteoric rise as the greatest wrestler in the world today.

Hank in the news again.

Jolf.

Unspoken intentions.

Isolation.

Julien Lavigne took a moment to remember where those things that happened before took him.

…

To the top.

And this time, he knew

that he and the voice were allies;

if not in kindness, then at least in purpose

It’s so much less stressful knowing that every man left in this tournament is a man whose neck has been forever compromised

That it’s not Joe, or Hayes,

And that if there is a heartbreaking finale to these lovely glue boys

Julien might have a say in it after all.

—--

You don’t,

but don’t worry.

I’ve

got you.

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…

FLAMBERGE swings his jolf club.

Hard.

His body feels it.

Does anyone else?

…

Does it matter?

Regardless,

It’s happening 

again.