Heavy Are The Hands

The locker room of the Universal Champion had been locked for a good hour after the events that transpired during the Main Event of ReVival 76. Those who knew Cecilworth Farthington well knew that was nothing to be done, there was no amount of door banging, of slaps in the face, of words of encouragement, of mantras that was going to change the situation. It was a matter of waiting it out, of patience. He’d been hurt before, he’d been enraged before, one time he even went on a swear word ridden tirade on jabber just because he tied in a match.

So losing by one of the oldest tricks in the book.

Oh this was going to be a bad one.

People speculated what Cecilworth was doing in his locker room, some thought he was busy trashing the joint, others, mostly Rob Williams if we’re being honest, was telling people he was having a cheeky wank. Anyone walking back could hear the splashing of water, which led to speculation he was trying to flood the building out of spite.

The actual answer was much more mundane, yet none the less tragic.

For the past hour, the Universal Champion had stood in his shower, zoned out, staring at the Universal Championship that sat upon the floor facing him. When he first turned on the taps he’d counted the phases. From cold to lukewarm to scalding hot and back again, two cycles, three cycles, eventually Farthington lost count. Time had become meaningless.

Temperature had become meaningless.

The outside world might as well have been another planet.

Cecilworth could feel the water running down his spine, straight to the drain but as time started to fade away, to him, the water and his body had become one in the same.

There were no words, there was no ranting. No anger, no fury. No plots of revenge.

There was only sorrow.

—

For years, it had been a family tradition for Father to sit down with The Girls and read an array of beautiful stories to help settle The Girls down for the night.

Tonight was the perfect night for Father’s story, a storm raged outside, the wind howling against the trees, the branches swaying, the rain battering against the bedroom window, as if knocking and being asked to be let in.

In The Girls’ bedroom, the small, dull lamp illuminated just enough of the room so as not to plunge both Father and Daughters into a complete inky void.

Father sat comfortably in a rocking chair, letting the rhythm of the rain and the wind to gently guide his swinging back and forth. The Girls sat on the edge of a bed, ready for the night’s tale, the crackling of a fireplace setting the soundtrack and atmosphere inside of the house.

“Girls, I thought we’d try a new story tonight.” Father said as he clutched a leather bound tome of tales to his chest, as if just making physical contact with the book provided a degree of emotional care.

Daughter #1 snorted a little, almost indignant, “last time you tried a new story, we were crying ourselves to sleep.”

Rather than offended, Father gave a warm chuckle, “I promise you, there are no spooky basements in this one.”

Daughter #2 looked into Father’s eyes and saw the glint in his eyes, she knew he had a special tale planned and didn’t want to rip it away. The Girls looked towards each other and back to Father, after a few moments of psychic silence, The Girls gave the nod of approval to Father, the signal for him to open up his fancy leatherbound book.

“I call this one “The Spinning Prince””

And with that, the tome was opened.

—

The story of The Spinning Prince started in the most humble way it could for a Prince. Challenged by his father, the King, he was provided a single golden plate. The King wanted to test the dexterity and mindfulness of his son, and tasked him with what at the time seemed like a simple ask. All he needed to do was keep the single golden plate spinning upon a rod for as long as his body would physically allow.

The Prince accepted the challenge with glee, convinced beyond any reason of sanity that should the Gods smile upon him, he could spin the plate until the heat death of the universe itself.

In the early days, it was a challenge, arms would hurt, fatigue would set up, everything would feel heavy

At one point in his life, The Spinning Prince was admired throughout the land, for he had a talent like no other. No matter the number of plates and sticks presented to the Prince, he could keep them all spinning in the air. His arms had become things of legend, as was his pace. Where others hand tried, their arms had grown heavy, their legends diminished. The Prince welcomed those who came for his record, always satisfied in the knowledge that they could not do what he could, for they had not lived the life that he had.

Word of The Spinning Prince had spread and townsfolk had come from far and wide to see this impressive display in action.

Those of a curious mind often asked the Prince how this all started. Others became concerned he was now stuck in a prison of his own making. For many months and many moons, this had become his life, he had not let a single plate drop, no matter how many of the kingdom tried to add to his burden. To him, these were not people seeking to hurt him, they were seeking to challenge him, seeking to allow the Prince to show what he was truly capable of. Every plate was nothing more than another joyful challenge. A new member of his family to care for.

That was until a representative of the Anti-Kingdom arrived one night upon a dark horse.

Both citizens and royalty alike dismissed this invasion, it mattered not where a man came from, their Prince was stronger, their Prince was mentally and physically tough. He hadn’t let a plate drop yet and he wasn’t about to let an outside to his domain bring that to a stop. Sure, many whispered concerns of the Anti-Kingdom, but the Prince knew he was just like the others who had come to challenge his talents - fury and thunder may always have heralded an arrival but the conclusion was always the same.

Another plate for the display.

Another plate to spin.

Yet as the representative of the Anti-Kingdom demounted, some of the citizens began to worry, one even remarked of the Prince “don’t you think his arms look tired?”.

—

“Father, if he was spinning plates all the time, when did the Prince actually sleep?”

Father was taken a little aback by the interjection of Daughter #1, this was story time after all, not Question Time. That was a different time. Which was not this time.

“Oh you know, probably micronapping or something”.

Daughter #1 shrugged her shoulders in a “good enough” kind of way but this just invited Daughter #2 to ask her own question.

“How did he manage to keep all the plates spinning as more and more plates got added?”

A quick sip of the drink on his side table provided the mental clarity required for Father to answer the question. “Oh you know, he had Sonic the Hedgehog speed”.

The Girls looked at each other and back to Father. “We’ll let you continue, for now.”

—

Time was no longer a concept in the world of Cecilworth Farthington’s PRIME locker room. It was as dead a social construct as numbers were to others.

No, now the man existed in his own universe, a universe that contained nothing but a tiled floor, the Universal Championship and a shower that could only keep heat for the best part of three minutes.

Locked in his own mind, the thoughts swirled into the most disgusting soft service. Inky black and full of bile, it wasn’t exactly the Thought Cone that would be in high demand from the general public.

Cecilworth’s bottom lip curled up inside, over his teeth, making contact with his tongue. His bleary eyes slowly began to swell with human sadness juice. Not an overwhelming gush like a fire hydrant being opened, more of the slow trickle of a broken tap.

All Farthington could do was stare at his own nameplate, it felt like the only thing that was still keeping him tethered to the bare grip on reality he still had. All he could do was mumble “I let you down” over and over again. Perhaps he hoped that the name plate would speak back, speak words of encouragement, speak words to get him out of the pit of despair he now resided in. Of course though, no cry came back from the Universal Championship, mostly likely on the account of the fact that title belts lack even the most rudimentary functions that would enable verbal communication.

As the shower went from warm to cold once more, Cecilworth could only look at the PRIME name in brilliant white and blue that sat in the centre of the championship.

“I let you down too.”

—

Father looked towards a vibrating phone on his side table, he saw the caller and decided that the matter was not urgent. He adjusted his legs and continued to read from his tale.

—

The Lord of the Anti-Kingdom casually strolled up and down, inspecting the line of plates, all of which, with the magic of centrifugal force, remained up in the sky, spinning brightly. Many of the plates were traditional white, but there was the occasional splash of colour from a few of the more fanciful villagers, plates of yellow, of crimson red, of neon green. All spinning in unison, a wonderful sight that brought disgust to the Lord of the Anti-Kingdom.

His inspection finished, the Lord walked directly to the Prince, who stood in front of the single golden plate, the plate that had started this all.

“I hear you’re the best to ever do this.” remarked the Lord, “I’d like to find out for myself just how good you truly are.”

The Prince greeted the Lord of the Anti-Kingdom with a wide smile, those who came to challenge the Prince no longer raised his hackles, no matter how hard they tried. He was The Spinning Prince, he was born for this, moulded for this.

“Welcome traveller, welcome to our beautiful Kingdom. I hope you have had time to admire its beauty. There are many tales to tell and me and my citizens would be happy to introduce you to our beautiful lore.” the Prince stretched out his hand to gesture across the Kingdom, as if to welcome the outsider to join the party.

“I actually had something else in mind, Mr. Spinning Prince” the condescending tone of the Lord of the Anti-Kingdom was immediately noted by the Prince. “I’ve heard the tale of your talents, and I just thought I’d come here, see it for myself and provide you with a little challenge from the Anti-Kingdom.”

Unperturbed by the nature and tone of the Lord, the jovial Prince invited the challenge, “please, visitor, grab a stick and a plate and I’ll show you what I’m capable of. I think you’ll be rather surprised.”

The welcoming Prince gestured to a local, a tall man in a black tunic, not one for words, he held a stick and blue plate to present to the Lord.

The Lord though, had a different plan in mind. He marched to the very end of the line of plates. Rather than add to the number, he pushed the stick and what happened next horrified… one by one every single plate crashed into one another, without time for the Prince to act. A domino effect was the order of the day, every clatter and smash was like another dagger to heart of the Prince.

As the locals screamed in terror, the Lord of the Anti-Kingdom could only but laugh, a bellowing laugh that rang out through the town. The Prince scrambled, but he could only save one plate.

The golden plate.

He saw his life’s work in shambles and could only look at the Lord in confusion. The Lord laughed in the Prince’s face.

“Heavy are the hands that spin the plates.”

—

“Well girls, what did you think so far?”

There was a silence that hung through the air, allowing the crackling of the fire to fill the gap. Father sat worried and yet he needed not, as The Girls broke the silence after mere moments of quiet contemplation and reflection.

“Dad…”, Daughter #2 was the first to speak, her thoughts gathered.

A pregnant pause, enough of a gap for Father to interject.

“Yes, dear daughter?”

There was a bit of finger drumming against the edge of the bed. The wooden frame allowed the silence of the finger roll in the cold night’s air.

“Did you… did you bring us here to read a story you just made up about Uncle Cecilworth?”

A nervous pant from Father, he could feel the sweat suddenly run through his body, his back became clammy very quickly.

“Well, I thought it was a good story to tell…” came the stammered response.

“That poor man needs you more than ever and you’re here coming up with fables of his downfall. That seems incredibly cruel.” Daughter #1 joined the fray.

“We love your stories dad, but we’re in our 20s now. I have my own kid to put to bed in a minute, I can’t be driving over here every time you’ve got some kind of twisted point to make. It’s not right. You know it’s not right…”

Father looked to the side table next to his rocking chair and took a stiff swig of the amber liquid contained within a crystal tumbler.

“I just miss you both, you’re my little Glue-ettes, and you always will be.”

The Girls both give their father a kind smile.

“You see us plenty dad and you’ll see us again soon, but we’re really not the ones who need you. I think you know that.”

Leaping out of the bed, The Girls both give their father a quick hug and head for the door. On the way out, Daughter #1 turns back to her dad. “You should call Cecilworth.”

The Girls wave goodnight, leaving their father to his whiskey and crackling fire. He isn’t alone for long though, as Mrs. Atken steps into the room and provides a small peck on the cheeks to her husband as she freshens up the tumbler by his side.

“The girls are right, Phil, all his plates have smashed like he was at a Greek wedding. He needs you.”

The Humble Proprietor initially waves off his family’s suggestion with a dismissive “he’s his own man, he’s never needed me.” but Mrs. Atken takes none of it.

“You're the only real father figure he's ever had, of course he needs you.”

Phil Atken was a wise enough man to know that he didn't need to be told twice by his wife.

—

The locker room had eventually turned into a hotel room, PRIME couldn’t exactly just keep renting the arena for days on end just for their Universal Champion to have an endless shower. To Cecilworth Farthington, things had barely changed. There was still a tiled floor and a soothing balm of wet to patter down across his back.

He supposed that the hotel room allowed the hot water to last a bit longer, but the cycle of wet style remained. It had remained the same for days now, perhaps Cecilworth Farthington had become the most cleansed man in human history.

Just Cecilworth, the Universal Title and a steady stream of water.

No matter how long he spent in the shower, no matter how many times he apologised to himself and PRIME, he could never truly feel clean. To him, he had failed the company, he had failed his friends, he had failed LT.

He marched into ReVival 76 with the legacy of the ReVival era on his shoulder and he let them all down.

Then again, it seemed like many he had fought with and alongside cared not for the battle. People like Nate Colton and Chandler Tsonda seemed much more interested in proving their worth to the Universal Championship, but what worth did it have when a pretender to the throne with his only vanity championship could claim something few in the company could.

Cecilworth thought he was fighting to defend the honour of the company, but it turns out no one cared if the company had honour or not. They just looked at their next stepping stone. The next pathway for their legacy.

The Universal Champion had never felt more disappointment in himself. He had never felt more alone. Atoning to the title, atoning to himself, days had gone by and yet there was no catharsis, there was no healing. There was just emptiness. So when his hotel toilet phone started bleeping, he was dragged out of his stupor for the briefest of moments.

Who would care enough not only to find out where he was staying, but to use an old fashioned telephone to get in contact?

At first Cecilworth questioned if he should bother to answer, his fingers were as wrinkled as a ninety year old’s gooch and he didn’t want to play “slippy phone” for some kind of pizza scam. Yet the phone continued to beep, almost as if it was yelling at him to pick up.

What Cecilworth did not expect when he plucked up the courage to finally answer the phone was the gruff Scottish voice on the other end of the line, particularly given he only provided two words before the line disconnected.

“We rebuild.”

—

Losses hit you hard, don’t they Nate? We’re cut from the same cloth in that regard. Both men who hold ourselves to the highest of standards. We expect more from ourselves than we do for anyone else, and that’s why it hurts so much more when you feel like you’ve let yourself down. 

I saw that look in your eyes when you lost to my dear Joe in the Almasy, it’s the same look I’ve had locked onto my face since I heard the bell ring and Tchu declared the winner. It’s not anger at the cheating, it’s the frustration that we were caught by it. We’re both smart enough we shouldn’t be caught out, yet both of us did get caught. There’s no video assisted referee in wrestling, and we accept that. 

The mental punishment, it hurts, doesn’t it? A pit you don’t think you’ll ever climb out of.

It doesn’t help that we both carry massive albatrosses around our necks. People look at us as the extension for another, when you emblazoned “The New Diamond” nickname, people just began to look at you as an extension of the Youngblood legacy. For me, the minute I walked in the door of PRIME, I was nothing but PRIME’s Continuity Phil Atken. 

No matter what we do, no matter what we accomplish in our own names, by our own hands, there are always the whispers of comparison. 

The bell will soon ring, and for the second time in PRIME, we’ll be fighting for a prize. This time, the biggest prize there is. 

You already suffer the weight of expectation so much that I would never be cruel enough to burden you with Coral Avalon's legacy on top of everything else. Others though, they'll be whispering it. They'll be waiting and hoping. People love that guy. 

Another albratoss seems incredibly unfair. To me, you need to fight only as you, to block out the noise and expectation. Not to defend the honour of others, not to become someone else’s Diamond. This match is your chance to be Nate Colton, his own man. Even if that's not what society expects.

I respect you Nate, because I understand you.

I can deflate a roid monster's arm with a pen, choke the life out of him, yet I still get my name trampled in the dirt. Win clean, win dirty, it doesn’t seem to matter, I don’t fit the Universal Champion “mould”. I could win a forty wrestler gauntlet and someone would be writing a news article about my friendship with Lindsay Troy while I gasp for oxygen in a hospital bed. It's just like they view you as a legacy kid.

It never ends, Nate.

More expectations to meet. More hurdles to jump. 

No win comes without more plates to spin. 

No win comes without suffering. 

I’m going to keep the golden plate spinning. I am forever caught in the trap of expectations.

You though, you can be a free man. You can become unburdened. 

I’m just sorry it’ll be by my hand. 

You’ll thank me in the end.