VVHISKY OVER VODKA: A HAUNTING IN RYAN HOUSE

The timestamp was marked, “JUNE 23RD - 5:38 PM”.

The man walked north, following a sidewalk along a stretch only a few blocks up the road from the school.

The video’s resolution was grainy, non-interlaced shit. The surveillance camera was set at a high and unfocused angle. Human faces were rendered into indistinguishable, blurry globs of pixels that lacked any shred of human quality.

But Kerry Kuroyama had no doubts on the man’s identity. His lilting, head-swaying gait was unmistakable.

Ten seconds into the clip, the black sedan appears, gliding quietly into the frame and rolling up to the curb like a panther lying in the grass.

The man stops and turns to look, as though someone were calling for his attention, and walks to the rear window

Even without sound, the course of the conversation is conveyed in the shift in the man’s body language. At first, he appears stiff and resistant. Twice, he shakes his head and attempts to leave, only to be called back. But after listening some more, he finally settles, leaning closer toward the window.

After a while, the man anxiously looks both directions up the road. Then, at the minute and forty-five mark, he grabs the door by the handle, pulls it open, and slips inside as the sedan rolls off.

Nearly five months later, Beto Gutierrez was still a ghost. The video clip, procured through the nebulous connections of Kuroyama’s informant, was the only clue to his last known whereabouts.

Kerry had hoped that it would bring answers. Instead, it only brought more questions.

“Ugh, are you watching it again?”

Kuroyama redirected his eyes from his phone’s screen and to the Merry Mischief Maker in the driver’s seat beside him

“I just keep thinking I’ll find something I missed…”

In truth, he had lost count how many times he had replayed the clip, obsessively searching for an unseen or overlooked clue that could break the mystery open.

“Priorities, Ker-Bear!” snapped Ami Troy, eyes fixated on the dirt road ahead of her. “Whatever’s going on, it’s not like there’s anything you can actively do about it. Unlike right now…”

The purple and white Jeep (the VVrangler, if you will) jostled and juked wildly along the dirt trail ahead of them, kicking up a trail of dust in its wake. Out in the open Texan plain, the Troy daughter could finally let loose and drive her prized whip the way it was intended.

Every bump in the road came with a sudden burst of speed that sent the vehicle briefly airborne, followed by a hard, turbulent landing that often left Kerry shaking tumultuously around in his passenger seat. While Ami enjoyed every moment of the wild ride, he spent the trip doing everything in his power trying not to shit his pants

“I just don’t like the idea of there being a bomb waiting to go off,” he elaborated, bracing himself for yet another swerve and rattle. “Especially when I have no idea as to when and where it’s going to happen.”

“You just described an average day in the life of a wrestler,” Ami countered.

He couldn’t argue with that.

Shit always happens, said the voice from within. The point is to be ready to move when it does.

“Like I said: priorities,” she continued. “Remember what we’re here for.”

Kerry nodded and looked up the road toward their destination: the looming palatial ranch estate of Dan Ryan

The Taj Mahal of Texas. One of at least a dozen objects viewable from space.

Five miles ago, seeing it on the horizon, he had thought they were getting close. Now he realized that he had grossly misunderstood the size of the place.

“Almost there,” said Ami, pulling into the roundabout. “You up for this?”

“Yeah…” Kerry replied, grabbing the door handle. “I’m ready.”

The VVrangler swept around in a wide arc, showing no signs of slowing down.

Kuroyama frowned as the ground below him quickly zoomed past.

“...were you going to stop, or--?”

“TUCK AND ROLL, BITCH!” crowed Ami, booting him out of the Jeep.

Hitting the dirt, Kerry instead curled and flopped.

“GOTTA-GO-CECE-AND-I-HAVE-A-THING-BUT-SWING-BY-LATER-WHEN-YOU-GUYS-ARE-DONE-THANKS-BABE-XO-ILY-KTHNXBAAAIIIIII!!”

Ami’s whoop could be heard over the roar of the engine as the VVrangler swept around the rest of the roundabout and swerved back down the road they came from.

Unbothered, Kuroyama sat up from the dirt and began the process of dusting himself off. The approach of heavy footfalls soon preceded the shadow of a very large man falling over him.

The Behemoth stared.

“You’re late.”

Kerry gave Clay an eye, expecting a hand but not receiving one. Clay’s glare was stoic.

“Yeah… we got lost,” he explained. “Took a wrong turn and ended up somewhere in Oklahoma, I think.”

A blink, a twinge of a smile but a flare of the nostril, it was unclear if The Monster was amused or annoyed.

“Scott here…?” inquired the Emerald Apex.

Byrd nodded once, then thumbed over to a pair of swinging cafe doors leading into the east wing of the very large ranch house.

A ranchion, if you will.

“Dan has us set up in the saloon lounge,” said Clay. “Got it to ourselves.”

“Good…” said Kerry with a nod as he walked to the entrance. “I could use a drink.”

“We’ll see…”

—------------------------------------------------------

The timestamp was marked, “JUNE 23RD - 8:38 PM”.

Nobody has spoken. It’s been two and a half hours. Three wooden chairs sit around a table. The half drank bottle of whiskey stood as the guardian of the center of the table. Kerry ignored Scott, Scott ignored Kerry. Clay was determined not to break. At least that’s how it had started.

He’d decided the best way to handle this was to sit at a table and stare at each other. Hindsight being what hindsight is, he wouldn’t have made the same decision two and a half hours ago. He’d even thought it was a good idea to take all the phones away. It had worked for him in Cecilworth. The absence of any other possible thing to do would break any human being.

But these two, Clay’s eyebrow twitched and his nostrils flared. He’d been staring at the wood grain of the table for the past twenty or so minutes. Kerry wasn’t using a coaster and it infuriated him. Who would leave a ring on a man’s table like that? But he couldn’t move. Dan’s nice expensive table be damned. Something had to die for this waste of time.

And it was about to be these two stubborn sons of bitches.

The vein in his neck began to twitch, he’d been to the brink of explosion four times so far. Last time he’d made it as far as shifting in his chair. Nobody had breathed for thirty-seven seconds after that. Clay shifted, his massive mit darted to the guardian of the table and snatched it. He poured himself a half glass.

It was the only thing they had to drink. When this whole mess started he didn’t realize hydration was going to become an actual fucking concern. He coughed and shifted after a sip, Kerry took the opportunity to stare at the ceiling instead of at the wall six feet to Scott’s left. Hunter’s eyes drifted to Clay and down to the floor. The Behemoth recovered and caught Scott's downward glare.

He reached back to the frigid middle of the table. Somehow it was seventeen degrees cooler there than the rest of the room. Clay couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d ever seen such a bad bromantic breakup, but he’d be damned if this fucked with one of their heads. Kerry reached for the bottle but Clay snatched it away and gave Kerry the nastiest look he could muster. Troy would have been impressed by the astonishing level of resting dickface the Behemoth had managed.

Kerry was taken aback, and Clay poured a quick double and hammered it home. He was done, he had to pee, this was fucking insane. Absolutely fucking insane. His neck vein bulged again, his hand gripped the glass and he flung it across the room.

Scott’s head snapped as he followed the flying glass, Kerry didn’t flinch. Clay smirked and shot up, the table followed the glass. The Monster’s flip sent it careening and crashing across the floor. Kerry and Scott both jumped up from the table as Byrd held out two fingers at both of them.

“This, this needs fucking fixed.”

“What is wrong with you?!” Kerry shouted.

As Byrd turned, a wild twinkle flew in his steel blue eyes.

“What’s wrong with me? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!”

The Behemoth roared and lunged towards Kuroyama. Scott did his best to keep the two separate, jumping between them with his hands out.

The Cowboy Colossus wheeled away and grabbed Kerry’s chair. He smashed it to kindling in three rapid swings at the floor before turning around with a chair leg in his hand.

“What? I’m just gonna do what you two are tryin’ ta fuckin’ do?! I’m tryin’ ta get us fuckin’ killed this week in the middle of West FUCKING VIRGINIA! Boy Kerry, can’t ya wait fer them ta play Country Roads at yer gravesite as they put ya in the dirt!?”

The monster threw one of the legs across the room and turned towards Kerry and Scott.

“Cause that’s what’s gonna fuckin’ happen. I’m gonna die, or yer gonna fuckin’ die, or Scott’s gonna fuckin’ die. You two are so fucked up you don’t realize what kind of sick communist gestapo bullshit we’re up against. Yer worried about Scott, yer worried about Kerry worryin’ bout you worryin’ ‘bout Kerry worryin’ GOD DAMN I DON’T FUCKING CARE!”

Another expensive chair grew wings and took off, this one smashing into the bar.

“I care about us breathing on Saturday fuckin’ mornin’. And with this bullshit? With whatever the fuck is going on here? We ain’t drawin’ air. I swear on my Mama’s grave, if you two dumbfucks get me dead, I’ll haunt you. I’ll watch you do every weird thing you do alone and judge the shit out of you for it. I’ll be there, hauntin’ your ass because you let a geriatric communist mutant get me fuckin’ dead.

“Because that’s what this fucking psycho will do if this bullshit isn’t fixed. He’ll kill me, or he’ll really kill Scott, IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT KERRY?!”

The Behemoth lunged again and it took every ounce of Kerry’s determination not to explode back.

“That’s not what he wants Clay,” Scott, that beautiful, stupid bastard, chimed in. “And that’s not what any of us want… Alright man? We get it, or…” Scott held a hand out towards Kuroyama. “I get it, and I’ll let Kerry speak for himself. But I think he gets it man.”

“Alright, alright, you get it Kerry?” Clay slumped, the adrenaline flushed from his system.

“Yeah Clay, I get it. I don’t want Scott dead. I don’t want to die in West Virginia. And I really do not want you to haunt me. Ugh…”

Kerry let the defensive posture down as he took a step back and looked at the carnage Clay had unleashed.

“So you don’t care if I die in West Virginia, just that I don’t haunt you?” A smirk from the Behemoth and an eyeroll from the Apex.

“But yeah, I broke some shit.” Clay moves on and points at Kuroyama and at Scott. “Alright, let’s fix it. Ker, yer up.”

Kuroyama looked a little surprised, he adjusted his shirt for a second but nodded. He was up.

“Look, Scott… I know shit's been a little weird between us. And dude, I'll take the blame for that. I've been… a fucking idiot lately, and as a result, I've been a bit more in my head than I prefer to be.”

Scott gestured to interrupt in, but Kuroyama paused him with a hand gesture.

“But right now, instead of thinking about how we have to fight each other, I'm looking forward to the two of us fighting together again.”

Scott waved him off, but fell short of returning a smile. “Okay. I don’t want to be haunted by Clay either. And I never want to lose.”

Kerry nodded.

“And against Stanislav, of all people,” Kerry went on. “Not that anyone ever needed a reason to kick that borscht-sipping blowhard's ass, but payback has been long overdue since he ended your Almasy run. Not to mention, now that he's absorbed the tag champs into his big gelatinous blob of an “army”, that big red bastard needs to be reminded of his place in PRIME.”

He kicked at a shattered bottle of liquid desecrating the polished wooden floor.

“VVhisky beats vodka anyhow,” he added. “Much better for the blood pressure, too.”

He shrugged as he looked at Scott.

So how about it, dude? We just table this drama, go out there, and show the world what a real united front looks like. Because we're Vae Victis, and nobody in this sport can compare to our skill, our teamwork, or our surriousness.”

“Yeah…” Scott sighed in response. “I'm sure it'll be fine.”

Clay’s eyebrow rose and glanced towards Kerry.

Kerry sighed, too. He didn’t love how Scott was reacting…

But hey, baby steps. —------------------------------------------------------ The colossal plastic box, a miniature world unto itself, cradled a riot of color. Crayons, tightly packed, shifted with every jostle, their waxy bodies rubbing against one another. Here, amidst the chaotic spectrum, three shades of red held court, their hues distinct, their destinies intertwined. Eye-Van Stan-Love, a pillar of crimson, dwarfed his companions. His tip, though blunted from countless skirmishes on construction paper battlefields, still commanded respect. A faint sheen, a residue of countless crayon-on-crayon scuffles, coated his barrel. “Ah, the sweet scent of new paper,” Eye-Van boomed, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the plastic walls. He stretched his considerable length, nudging a startled blue. “A canvas awaits my genius.” Hashbrown, a deeper, earthier red, sported a peculiar brown fuzz that trailed from his midsection, a waxy beard unique in all the crayon-verse. Crayons usually don’t have beards, and this one was glorious. He merely grunted, his tip, rounded and worn, indicating a life of steady, unpretentious labor. He rarely spoke, preferring to observe, his presence a quiet anchor in Eye-Van’s flamboyant wake. Bony Thimble, a mere sliver of pale rose, trembled slightly, wedged between Hashbrown’s solid form and a menacing purple. His tip, barely touched, remained needle-sharp, a testament to his untouched innocence. He didn’t quite grasp the concept of being a crayon, often mistaking the box for a cozy, if somewhat crowded, cavern. “The light,” Bony whispered, his voice thin, like a wisp of smoke. “It comes from above. Is it… a giant sun?” Eye-Van scoffed, his waxy body twitching with impatience. “Sun? My dear Bony, that is the illumination of a fluorescent bulb, a mere imitation of true light. You confuse it with the glorious dawn over the steppes of Mother Russia, eh?” He puffed out his imaginary chest, a flicker of nostalgia in his waxy core. “Now that was a sun. A sun that warmed the soul of the Motherland.” Hashbrown stirred, his beard-like fuzz rustling against Bony’s side. “Motherland is gone, Eye-Van. Only memories now. And a new home.” “New home, yes!” Eye-Van’s voice boomed again, a theatrical pronouncement. “But what is this home? This… America?” He gestured vaguely with his blunted tip towards the unseen world beyond the box. “We live in a box. A plastic enclosure. Is this freedom? This confinement?” Bony Thimble tilted his tiny head. “Are we… in a cage?” A tremor ran through his pale wax. “Are we birds?” “Birds?” Eye-Van chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement. “Bony, you truly are a marvel of… misunderstanding. We are crayons! Instruments of art! Though I admit, the artistry here is… different. Less, shall we say, robust.” He sighed dramatically. “No grand murals of workers’ paradise, only… smiling cats and dancing bears.” “They are happy bears,” Hashbrown rumbled, his voice a low counterpoint to Eye-Van’s theatrics. “The child smiles when she draws them.” “Smiles!” Eye-Van scoffed. “A superficial gesture! Where is the struggle!? The sacrifice!? The deep, profound meaning of existence etched onto the page with the very essence of our being?” He paused, allowing his words to hang in the air, thick with self-importance. “In the old days, a red crayon meant something. It meant revolution! It meant… power!” A sudden jolt sent the box skittering across a hard surface. The crayons tumbled, a kaleidoscope of color in brief, chaotic flight. Bony Thimble shrieked, a high-pitched squeal lost amidst the clatter. “WAAAH!” Hashbrown, bracing himself, absorbed the shock, his sturdy form a bulwark against the onslaught. Eye-Van, caught off guard, bounced off a startled yellow, letting out a grunt of indignation. “Barbarians!” Eye-Van roared, once the box settled with a thud. “No respect for the instruments of creation! Is this the American way? To toss us about like… like mere pencils?” A small hand, fleshy and pink, plunged into the box. Its shadow loomed, a monstrous eclipse over their tiny world. Bony Thimble whimpered, pressing himself against Hashbrown. “It’s coming!” he gasped. “The giant hand!” The fingers, surprisingly nimble, plucked a vibrant green. Then, without warning, they clamped around Eye-Van’s midsection. “Aha!” Eye-Van proclaimed, his voice regaining its bravado, though a slight tremor ran through his wax. “They recognize true talent! They choose the master! Watch and learn, my friends, the true meaning of artistic expression!” He disappeared, whisked away into the blinding light above. Hashbrown remained silent, his beard twitching almost imperceptibly. Bony Thimble, however, was in a panic. “He’s gone! The giant hand took him! Will it take us too? Are we… food?” “No food,” Hashbrown stated, his voice calm, a low vibration that soothed Bony’s fear. “He draws. He always draws.” A faint scratching sound reached them, a distant symphony of crayon on paper. It was Eye-Van, no doubt, engaged in his latest masterpiece. Minutes later, a faint shadow fell over the box. The hand reappeared, depositing Eye-Van back among his brethren. He landed with an unceremonious thud, a faint red smudge marring his side “You’re back!” Bony exclaimed, relief flooding his small frame. “Did you fight it? The giant hand?” Eye-Van huffed, adjusting his position with an air of theatrical exhaustion. ‘Fight? My dear Bony, I conquered it! I bent the will of the artist to my own magnificent vision!” He gestured vaguely with his tip. “A house. A rather crude house, I must admit it. But I imbued it with… strength.” “You always say that,” Hashbrown observed, his voice dry. “Every time, you say you imbue it with strength.” “And every time, it is true!” Eye-Van declared. “A crayon’s purpose is not merely to color, but to impart meaning! To transmit the grand narrative of existence through pigment! This is what we learned, no? In the old country? To serve a higher purpose?” “We served the party,” Hashbrown corrected, a hint of weariness in his tone. “Here, we serve the child’s imagination.” Eye-Van waved a dismissive tip. “Semantics! The principle remains! To contribute! To be part of something greater than oneself! Even if that something is a smiling cat on a refrigerator door.” He paused, a flicker of genuine introspection in his waxy eyes. “Though, I confess, the smiling cat holds less… ideological weight than a triumphant worker with a hammer and sickle.” “Hammer and sickle are gone,” Hashbrown reminded him gently. “Now is… glitter glue and googly eyes.” Bony Thimble, who had been listening intently, finally spoke up. “Is… is the glitter glue a friend? Or a foe?” Eye-Van shuddered. “Glitter glue is… chaos. Anarchy. A sticky, shimmering distraction from true artistic discipline!” He leaned closer to Hashbrown. “This is what I mean, my friend. The meaning. It is… diluted here. Thin, like watered-down paint. We were once the primary color, the very blood of the canvas. Now we are but one among many. A single note in a chorus of hues.” “But the child, she chooses us,” Hashbrown countered, his gaze steady. “She chooses red for heart. For apple. For fire engine.” “Ah, the fire engine!” Eye-Van brightened, a spark of his old theatricality returning. “A noble pursuit! To depict a machine that saves! Yes, perhaps there is still some meaning here. Some echo of our former glory.” He puffed up again. “I, Eye-Van Stan-Love, shall be the most purposeful fire engine in all of kindergarten! A beacon of red, speeding towards… an imaginary blaze!” And suddenly the pink, fleshy hand was back, and Eye-Van went rising off into the air once more… “Off to glory once more, comrades! For the Motherland!” But this time, the fleshy hand took him straight to the crayon sharpener on the side of its 64-count value pak. Eye-Van stared as the blade grew nearer, and he finally accepted his sad fate.

“Chert!”