Blooms.

“To bloom is beautiful, but ask the seed what it cost.”

M.A. Kaul

The stale, recycled air in the hotel room clung to Scott’s skin. Mexico City hummed outside the double-paned window, a deep, vibrant thrum he felt more than heard. He dropped his duffel bag onto the plush, burgundy carpet, its thud echoing in the quiet space. The Hotel Punto MX, a modern boutique hotel in the city’s historic center, offered a nice, quiet contrast to the chaotic energy of the streets outside. He peeled off his travel-worn t-shirt, tossing it onto the bed. His reflection in the full-length mirror showed a man caught between two worlds, the weary traveler and the athlete preparing for battle. ReVival 83. The words pulsed in his mind like a persistent headache. A championship match. This time for the tag team championship. He and Clay Byrd, against Daytona Diamonds and Rob Williams, the reigning champions. The weight of it pressed down on him, a heavy shroud. Just a few shows ago, he’d stood across the ring from Kerry, his best friend, and lost. Then the first show of the year back, another tag match, another defeat. To put the cherry on top, the very next show after that, Rob Williams beat Kerry for his Five-Star Championship. Scott ran a hand through his hair and sighed, the movement a familiar comfort. He needed to turn things around, not just for Clay and Kerry, but for himself. He couldn’t keep losing, not after coming so far. He walked to the window, pulling back the heavy curtain. Below, a river of yellow cabs snaked through concrete canyons. The distant mountains, hazy in the afternoon light, offered a fleeting sense of peace. He needed that peace. He needed focus. His phone buzzed, a sharp vibration against the polished wood of the bedside table. He picked it up, expecting Clay, or maybe even one of the ReVival crew, with show instructions. The screen glowed with Emma’s name, her smiling face a familiar anchor. A FaceTime call. His brow furrowed. Emma rarely called like this, not unless… He tapped the screen. “Hey, Em,” he said, his voice a little rough. The background behind her was the familiar beige of their father’s hospital room. His gut clenched. Her Smile faltered, a flicker of raw pain crossing her features. Her eyes, usually so bright, held a sheen of unshed tears. “Scott. Dad… he wants to talk to you.” Her voice was thin, as if stretched taut. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He knew this call was coming. He just hadn’t wanted it to. “Is he…?” She shook her head, a slow, deliberate motion. “He’s not good, Scott. He’s asking for you.” She shifted the phone, and the familiar, gaunt face of his father filled the screen. Frank Hunter, a man who had once filled every room he entered with his booming voice and unshakeable presence, now lay a shadow of his former self. His skin, a translucent parchment, stretched over sharp cheekbones. The oxygen cannula snaked into his nostrils, a cruel tether. His eyes, usually steely blue, were clouded, but when they found Scott’s face on the screen, a spark ignited within them. “Scott,” Frank’s voice rasped, a mere whisper against the hum of hospital machinery. It was a sound stripped of all its usual gruffness. Scott leaned closer to the phone, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Hey, Dad. How are you doing?” The question felt hollow, a meaningless politeness in the face of such stark reality. A faint smile touched his father’s lips, a ghost of the strong man Scott remembered. “Don’t you worry about me, son.” He paused, a shallow cough shaking his frail frame. Emma, just out of frame, offered a gentle hand to his shoulder. He waved her off. “I just… I needed to tell you something.” Scott’s breath hitched. He braced himself, a cold dread washing over him. “You’re a good man, Scott. You always have been,” Frank continued, his gaze unwavering, piercing through the digital divide. “Even when you were a little terror, running around, breaking things… you always had a good heart. Your mother, she always said you had a fire in your belly. A good fire. A righteous fire.” Scott’s vision blurred. His mother had been gone for years, a soft memory he clung to. His father rarely spoke of her, and never with such open tenderness. “She’d be so proud of you, Scott. So incredibly proud,” Frank’s voice cracked, a tremor running through it. “Look at you. You built something out of nothing. You went out there, chasing a dream most folks would laugh at, and you made it real. You fight. You work. You don’t give up.” His father, a man who had shown emotion as rarely as he’d shown weakness, was laying himself bare. The raw honesty of it tore through Scott, shredding his carefully constructed composure. A burning sensation pricked at his eyes. “I’ve watched you, Scott. Every match I could. Even when you lost, you got back up. That’s what matters. That’s who you are. You’re a Hunter. You’re a fighter.” Frank’s voice gained a fleeting strength, a spark of the old, formidable man. “You were born for this, Scotty. Born to stand tall, born to make your mark.” A tear escaped Scott’s eye, tracing a hot path down his cheek. He swiped at it, futilely. “And son…” Frank’s gaze softened, the steely blue dissolving into pure, unadulterated sincerity. “I love you, Scott. So much. More than words can ever say.” He reached a trembling hand towards the phone, as if to touch his son’s face through the glass. The dam broke. Scott gasped, a choked sob escaping his throat. He couldn’t speak. The words, the raw, unfiltered love from a man who had always communicated through actions and stoic nods, shattered him. He squeezed his eyes shut, the hot tears streaming freely now. Emma’s voice, soft and regretful, cut through his anguish. “He’s getting tired, Scott. I have to let him rest.” “Wait,” Scott managed, fumbling for words, but it was too late. The screen flickered, then went black. Emma’s face vanished. His father’s face vanished. Only his own reflection stared back at him. The phone slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the carpet. A raw, guttural cry tore from his chest, a sound of pure, unbridled agony and grief. He stumbled backward, colliding with the edge of the bed, then dropped to his knees, burying his face in his hands. The sobs wracked his body, shaking him with a violence he hadn’t felt since his mother’s funeral. He wept for his father, for the man he was, for the man he was losing, for the words he hadn’t known he needed to hear. The hotel room, once quiet, now echoed with his despair. Minutes stretched into an eternity. His chest ached, his eyes burned. He felt hollowed out, a shell. He pushed himself up, his legs unsteady, and walked to the sliding glass door. He yanked it open, stepping out onto the small balcony. The city sounds rushed in, a sudden overwhelming wave of life. Car horns blared, a distant siren wailed, music thumped from a nearby club. The air, thick with the scent of exhaust and something vaguely sweet, felt cool against his hot skin. He gripped the cold metal railing, knuckles white, and stared out at the sprawling metropolis. Beyond the nearest row of buildings, more stretched out to the horizon, a tapestry of concrete and light. The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in fiery oranges and purples. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to slow the frantic beating in his chest. His father’s words replayed in his mind. You’re a fighter. You don’t give up. Born for this. The tears still pricked at the edge of his mind, but a different emotion began to stir, a fierce, unyielding resolve. He wasn’t alone. His mother’s love, his father’s pride… he had to honor them. His phone buzzed again, a softer, more insistent vibration. He pulled it from his pocket, his thumb brushing away the moisture from the screen. Clay Byrd’s name appeared, a stark reminder of the world he had to re-enter. The match. The championship. He took another breath, pushing the grief down, locking it away for a moment. He needed to be strong. He needed to be a fighter. He answered the call. “Hey, man,” Clay’s familiar drawl filled his ear. “You settled in yet? I’m down in the lobby. Grabbed a bite, saw some of the sights. You wanna link up? We should talk, maybe hit the gym.” Scott’s eyes swept over the vibrant, sprawling city, then hardened. “Yeah, Clay. Give me five minutes. I’ll be right down.” His voice, though still hoarse, held a new steely edge. He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, letting himself feel it one last time, and then he resolved, no matter what, to keep fighting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Look at the two of you.

Robbie Two- Belts.

Daytonium Diamondtonio. Or whatever the fuck you’re calling yourself.

Champions of the fucking world.

It don’t get better than that, does it?

Everything you’ve ever wanted.

You're like Oklahoma in the roaring twenties. Just out there farming away, living large, high on the hog. Growing beyond your means, you plant and you farm like crazy. It’s never going to end; the oil profits just keep coming, and the food just keeps getting put on the table. All that food, all that money. You keep getting greedy and eating and eating. Planting your seeds everywhere you go. The blooms stripping the earth down and exposing it to the bare wind. But you keep planting, keep driving. Two feet in front of the other, ripping away at the earth.

It doesn’t get better. It can’t possibly get better. This is it. Robbie Five Star, tag champ of the world with Daytonaronie the masked mutant.

Except at the end of every path the consequences of your own actions wait.

See, consequences are patient. Just like our wonderful little blue ball that happens to be the third planet from the sun. There ain’t a time limit on consequences boys, there ain’t some magical statue of limitations on your own bullshit coming back to bite you in the ass.

Hell, I told all of y’all as much back when I tried and almost killed your gas huffing meth dumpster friend Freddy.

Do you remember what the two of y’all stood by and let him do? Like, what goes through your cranium when your buddy is like ‘HEY GUYS, I’M GONNA GO PISS ON THAT BIG SUM BITCHES DADDIES GRAVE!’

Nobody around to tell Freddy he might want to sleep on it?

I told ya back then, I’m holding each and everyone of you responsible for what he did. And what have you spent the past year doing?

If doubling down was an olympic sport, you two dipshits would be the hands down favorite for that dumb fucking medal.

All year, every time we tie up with you dipshits it’s the moron parade. Might as well schedule the fucking thing and get us all floats for our entrances. I’ll ride out on a golf cart dressed up like a cowboy hat because I’m so sick of running down to the ring every time you morons are mad we wrestle a little better than you.

I’m over it, I’m over figuring out which one of you idiots I have to hit with a club first, and eventually Daytonighetti and I get into it and one of us ends up going through a table. Rob tries his normal horse shit, sometimes it works, or sometimes Fred’s bullshit works. Someone gets hit with a chair, or salt in their eyes, or gasoline, Ami beats the shit out of some lasagna boys. It’s a whole fucking thing.

Every. God damn. Time.

Why even have rules in matches anyway? What the hell is the point of ‘em? You boys are going to break them, then I’m going to break them back, cause fair is fair, and Scott’s gonna feel all weird about it, and I’m gonna have to yell at Scott till he chokes the life out of one of you dumb fucks for choking him.

All this edge lord Joker energy. It’s like the cult of dipshit and jackassery. That’s what being a whoresmen is. I bet you dumb fucks have a secret ritual, walk around grunting and screaming words around some fire. Probably took it right out of a free mason meeting some poor hopeless fuck invited one of y’all two. Daytonoscopy stands there with the big book, wearing some glittery funny hat while reciting the oaths of whoreshit.

Do ya grab yer junk twice before we do the secret handshake or is it a finger in your ear?

I bet it’s the finger.

You fucking weirdos.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The gym wasn’t where Clay was headed. Clay was also in luck, Scott Hunter is not the most observant person in the world. He didn’t ask questions when they got on the highway, he didn’t ask questions when they stopped in some small town and filled the truck up, I mean, at least not the kind of questions he should be asking.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“If you had to marry a Spice Girl, which one?”

“Have you ever eaten an armadillo?”

“What about a squirrel?”

“How many horses does this truck weigh?”

But it’d been quite a few hours of driving. The sun had set, darkness had enveloped the road, and finally as they passed a sign pointing out the upcoming border between the United States and Mexico; Scott decided to ask a very pertinent question.

“Clay, I’ve seen us pass quite a few gyms. And I thought you had one you really liked, I figured it was because your favorite color is periwinkle blue we’d stop at a blue one. But you know, we kept driving past the periwinkle blue one. I'm also glad I have had this opportunity to say periwinkle multiple times. I just love saying that word. Periwinkle. Periwinkle.”

It took Scott awhile to find the point.

“And well, then I figured I could find out what kind of scene you were into based on which Spice Girl you would marry. You know, looking for that nice athletic place, you’d pick Sporty. Or if you wanted the fancy one you’d pick Posh, and then if you were going to one of those spooky gyms we saw you’d be into Scary. Then I saw one that looked kinda dumb so I thought you might be into Dopey. You know, just so I could figure out which one it was.”

A long while.

“And you told me you weren’t into British chicks, so I looked for one with armpit hair, and then I really didn’t know how to figure out what gym we were going to and I saw an armadillo and wondered what it tasted like…” Clay finally saved the world and cut Scott off.

“What’s the question?”

“Where are we going and why am I glad I keep my passport in the front pocket of my gym bag ever since that Australia and Asia trip last year when I had to smuggle Kerry Koalayama out of one country and into another country?” Scott’s eyes were wide, Clay kept his eyes forward staring down the long path of pavement and dashed yellow lines.

“What do the people at customs always say when you get back from traveling overseas?” Clay said through a smirk, Scott turned and looked at Byrd, trying to make eye contact with him but his eyes were locked forward.

“Is that a Koala in your bag?” Clay brushed off the comment quickly.

“What else?”

“Is that legal?” Scott needed a little help getting there and Clay obliged.

“Welcome home, they always say welcome home.”

“Wow, they do, don’t they?” Somewhere in an alternate cartoon dimension a dim lightbulb slowly illuminates above Scott Hunter’s head. Slowly, very slowly. One of those old fashioned ones.

“Yes Scott, they really do. Every single time.”

“America’s a big place…”

—----------------------

You did it Robbie, you really did it. You burst through onto the scene. You and your little pal. The cult of dipshit, the little rascals of PRIME. Look at you, five star dickhead and his pal Daytonahhrea Diamaroid.

You're out now, in the open.

And in PRIME Robbie, that’s not a very comfortable place to be.

Ask all of the others, plenty of them have come before you. They thrash and scratch and claw looking to get back to one of these precious moments you find yourself in. You feel new, you feel special. You feel so much, and Rob. I’m so glad you do. I’m so unbelievably happy that you are such a special, special boy. See, you’re double special Robbie.

Do you know why you’re double special?

It’s not ‘cause ya got two pieces of tin and leather with your name on ‘em.

No Robbie, that’s not it.

I know, it takes you a minute to get there. All seven of your leftover brain cells are working overtime trying to understand just why you are such an extraordinary little feller.

I was already going to hurt you Rob.

But then you took something that rightfully belongs to the Emerald Apex. You took something that belonged to Vae Victis.

You stole from us Rob. I told you to hold hands when you went to the bath room, I told you to look behind each and every corner, I told you that the moment you jerkoffs thought you had the worlds by the balls.

I told you I’d be there. I told you over a year ago; that when the Whoresmen had it all, I’d be there. Waiting. Like the dust bowl was the consequences of Oklahoma’s actions, Robbie, I’m the consequences of yours. Just like a seedling that sprouts forth from the dusty Oklahoma soil, it was always your destiny to fall.

I’m just glad I get to be the one who does it.

—-----------------------

“We’re here.” The sun was up, Scott was drooling with his head against the window. The extended cab of the truck was loaded with discarded food containers and empty plastic bags. Scott made some noises and Clay finally gave him a little shake.

“No I won’t trade my Koala for a Charizard…” Scott mumbled as he slowly opened his eyes. He squinted through the sun light, but his body recognized a stop and he pulled the handle and stumbled out of the truck.

“Where is here?” the spring sun was momentarily blinding, but Scott’s eyes adjusted. “And why are we in a cemetery?"

Clay waves Scott behind him and walks up a small path with Scott. Byrd reaches an arm out and stops Hunter in his tracks.

“We’re in Plainview, Scott. And this right here is my fathers grave. I ain’t never come up here before now, Scott. I never seen this stone in person, I ain’t never come up here lookin’ fer a sniff of my Pa,” Clay brushed his hair out of his face with his left hand as he looked down at the headstone.

“But I wanted him to be here, and I couldn’t really dig up a corpse and bring it to Mexico City, so I figured I’d bring you up to visit. Seemed easier.” Scott looked at Clay with a raised eyebrow.

“You could have just asked…”

“I coulda, but nobodies been askin’ me if I wanna go places when I wrestle in tag matches, and I’m superstitious. So if you ain’t doin’ a trucknappin, I figured I’d do a Scottnappin,” Clay said as his lip slowly curled into a half smile.

“Really…?”

“No, Scott. I didn’t bring ya up here ‘cause I’m superstitious. But if I was, I totally would have. But I didn’t do it because of that. No, nope I did not do it because of that.” Clay knelt down and picked at some leftover yellowed high grass on the side of the headstone.

“I brought ya up here, cause I needed ta talk to ya ‘bout somethin’ he taught me, and I figured bein’ up here, with him, it’d help me out.” Clay waved Scott down and the two men knelt beside the headstone.

“Yer so close Scotty, yer right on the brink of it. Ya gotta be able ta taste it. Just sproutin’ forth and takin’ this place by storm.” Clay paused while Scott nodded.

“Yer puttin’ the work in, yer doin’ what ya need ta do. Yer on that edge Scott, ya watered the seed and yer gonna burst through and bloom. But I need ya to take that next step Scott…” Clay’s hands squeezed Scott's shoulder. Hunter was nodding fast thinking of his own father. The two friends hid the tears from each other.

“Scotty, people like them, they don’t deserve grace..."