Disintegration

“Everybody thinks winnin’ a championship is a blessin’. They think they’ve done it and now they’re the king of the world, but that ain’t the truth. A championship is a curse. See, before you got the belt, folks just wanted to beat you. Soon as you got it… they start watchin’. Countin’ your bad nights. Countin’ your mistakes. Wonderin’ if maybe you might be slippin’. Hell, half of ‘em ain’t rootin’ for themselves no more, they’re just rootin’ for you to fall. They want to see what you look like when the shine wears off and the rust takes over. ‘Cause every man in that locker room’s tellin’ himself the same damn story.

‘I can beat him.’

And sooner or later… one of ‘em’s right.”

“Diamondback” Jack Diamonds

Interview with The Wrestling Gazette

June 16th, 1993

I

I ain’t never cared for television studios.

Too clean. Too bright. Everything smells like fresh paint and hairspray, like somebody scrubbed all the humanity outta the place ‘fore they unlocked the front doors. Folks in headsets hustlin’ 'round, talkin’ into little microphones clipped to their collars. Everybody’s in a hurry, but it feels like nobody knows where they’re headin’.

A young production assistant is leadin’ me toward the stage. Red hair, fine ass. Couple years ago, I’d be saddlin’ up next to her and slingin’ my best lines. Old Daytona’d tell her ‘bout the time I jumped a Sea-Doo clear over a pontoon boat. I’d promise her the world, if’n she were willin’ to come back to my room after the show. I’d have her belly-laughin’ and swoonin’ ‘fore the second commercial break.

Now, though?

I just smile.

“Appreciate all the help, ma’am.”

That’s what a champion’s ‘sposed to do.

She smiles back, tells me they’ll be bringin’ me out after commercials, then disappears through a pair of heavy black curtains without another word. I watch her go.

It’s funny, y’know. You spend your whole career imaginin’ what it’ll feel like to finally stand on top of the mountain, but nobody tells you how much thinkin’ comes with the view. Every little thing starts feelin’ like a decision. Every joke’s gotta be the right joke, every smile’s gotta be the right smile.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ll always be Daytona Diamonds; ain’t nobody ever gonna beat that outta me. I still like jet skis and cussin’ up a storm. Still think rhinestones improve damn near everything they touch… but comes a point where you start realizin’ folks ain’t just watchin’ ol’ Daytona no more.

They’re watchin’ the Universal Champion.

There’s a difference.

At least… I reckon there oughta be.

My daddy’s voice keeps tickin’ in the back of my head like a radiator leak. He used to say a belt turns every man in the locker room into a hunter and you into their quarry. After mama died and his career took a downturn, he spent most the rest of his life locked in a dark room with a stack of old tapes and a gallon of cheap gin, convinced the whole world had cheated him outta his glory.

I always swore I’d never end up like him even as I fell into all the same pitfalls.

Hell, worse ones, if’n we’re bein’ honest.

A makeup artist brushes past me, apologizin’ under her breath as she reaches for somebody else’s face. A camera operator rolls a tripod across the floor, nearly clippin’ my boots ‘fore mumblin’ an apology of his own.

He flashes me an embarrassed grin.

“Congratulations on the title,” he says.

“Much obliged,” I reply.

That’s… what? The sixth one today? Hell, maybe twentieth. Hard to keep track. Everybody says congratulations. Cashiers. Hotel clerks. Flight attendants. Folks I ain’t never met in my life suddenly talk to me like we’ve known each other for twenty years.

Funny thing is, I can’t decide whether they’re lookin’ at me or the belt.

It ain’t just leather and gold, y’know. It’s an anchor draggin’ on my collarbone. One second it feels like ten pounds and the next it’s a fifty-pound slab of dead iron cuttin’ straight into the meat of my shoulder.

My thumb absentmindedly rubs 'cross the edge of the center plate. Smooth. Heavy. Cold. For a split second, I think I feel a missin’ rhinestone, but it’s there. ‘Course it’s there. I polished the damn thing twice this mornin’. Just my mind playin’ tricks on me. Sleep’s been funny lately. That’s all. Not bad. Just… funny. Dreams gettin’ mixed up with memories. Mornings feelin’ like afternoons. More of that missin’ time bullshit, but not as bad as it was.

Just little things. Everybody forgets little things, don’t they? You blink and the floor tiles look a little darker. You look at your watch and the second hand seems like it froze for three ticks ‘fore jumpin’ ahead to catch up. Nothin’ crazy. Just… hitches in the reel. Just the tape warpin’ in the machine, stretched thin from too many playbacks.

I reach into my pocket, fingers brushin’ ‘gainst the paper corners of that diner napkin Elaine gave me. WRITE THINGS DOWN. I don’t even need to pull it out to read it.

“Mr. Diamonds?”

I look up. The same production assistant is standin’ there again. Same red hair. Same headset. Same smile. But… no, different earrings. Must be somebody else. Somebody else to congratulate me. Somebody else to smile at me and shake my hand.

She’s starin’ at me and I’m starin’ back. Both of us smilin'. I swear to God, there’s somethin’ in her eyes. It ain’t judgement. It’s more like recognition.

Like she knows me.

Not Daytona Diamonds, champion of the fuckin’ universe.

Me.

She knows I ain’t right.

She knows somethin's wrong.

She knows I’m fakin’ every damn smile, every half-hearted laugh, every goddang moment of every goddang day.

She knows.

She knows.

She kno–

Nope.

I’m fine.

Everything is fine.

“We’re ready for you.”

I smile back, adjustin’ the championship on my shoulder ‘fore followin’ her to the curtain.

I roll my shoulders back and tip my hat down just a touch.

Time to be Daytona Diamonds.

Time to be the Universal Champion.

Same damn thing.

II

I can hear the house band kick back in on the other side of the velvet curtain, blastin’ some brassy TV jazz to carry the audience back from commercial.

After Hours with Graham Mercer. The big time. The late-night crown jewel. If you’re sittin’ on that couch, it means network execs think America wants to look at your face while they brush their teeth ‘fore bed.

Showtime.

“And we’re back!” Graham’s voice booms through the house speakers, smooth and practiced as a game show host. “My next guest has had one hell of a summer, hasn’t he? He’s the reigning Universal Champion in PRIME, the host of a brand-new travel series called Shitfire & Supper, and quite possibly the only man alive capable of making wrestling, cowboy hats, and jet skis coexist in the same sentence.”

The crowd laughs right on cue.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome… Daytona Diamonds!”

The band strikes up an upbeat rendition of “Fastest Horse in Town”. I take a breath, push through the heavy curtains, and step into the glare of studio lights with the Universal Championship restin’ heavy on my shoulder. The brightness hits me like a slap in the face, but I don’t miss a beat. I pause just long ‘nough to tip the brim of my hat toward the front row, flashin’ ‘em the teeth ‘fore strollin’ out onto the main floor.

Graham meets me halfway ‘cross the stage, hand extended and big, network-approved smile plastered on his face.

“Champion,” he says, givin’ me a firm handshake.

“Mr. Mercer,” I reply, matchin’ his grip.

“Congratulations!”

“Thank you kindly.”

“Come on over,” Graham says, gesturin’ toward the plush leather couch beside his desk. “Let’s sit down, let’s talk.”

I walk over and sink into the leather, settlin’ the gold strap ‘cross my lap like a sleepin’ hound. I point two fingers at the band’s horn section with an approvin’ nod and give the crowd another flash of white teeth.

“Man, wouldja look at this setup?” I drawl, keepin’ my voice as rich as sweet tea. “Bet this couch cost more’n my first three paychecks!”

The audience chuckles and Graham grins, leanin’ his elbows onto the desk and pointin’ a pencil my way.

“It’s a long way from the county fairs and gymnasiums, isn’t it?” he asks. “I mean, look at you! You’re sitting here with the top prize in the entire industry! Universal Champion! You’ve got the show, you’ve got the fans… feels like the whole world is riding shotgun with you right now, don’t it?”

“Ain’t that the truth,” I say, leanin’ back into the sofa and extendin’ my arms along the cushions. “It’s been a wild ride, Graham. But, y’know, I realized somethin’. When you’re risin’ up, you’re doin’ it for yourself. But when you get here…”

I tap the thick, golden center plate of the belt.

“...you realize you’re carryin’ everybody with you. The fans, the locker room, the legacy of this business. I’m just as humbled as can be, brother. Just tryna be the kinda champion folks can be proud of.”

Inside my skull, my heart’s hammerin’ an ugly, irregular rhythm ‘gainst my ribs. Good. Keep it smooth. Hit those beats. Don’t let ‘em see you sweat. But the sweat is comin’ anyway, pricklin’ hot under my hairline ‘neath these goddang studio lights.

Graham nods approvingly, pointin’ that pencil at me again. “A reformed Daytona Diamonds. The champ with a heart of gold!”

“Ain’t no reform needed, Graham,” I say, offerin’ him a sharp wink while my skin burns ‘neath my shirt. “Just refinement.”

The studio audience erupts into a wave of cheers and I hold that easy, confident posture, restin’ my forearms on my knees like I ain’t got a single care in the world.

Don’t crack, you sonuvabitch. Keep smilin’.

“Well, speaking of carrying the business,” Graham says, shufflin’ his cue cards with a crisp clack-clack against the desk. “The weight on those shoulders isn’t getting any lighter, is it? Especially not with your next match right around the corner.”

My smile stays locked on my face, but my pulse starts stammerin’.

My next match…?

“I mean, PRIME dropped the official announcement just a few days ago,” Graham continues, completely oblivious to my stomach fallin’ through the floorboards. “First title defense. And man, what a matchup! You’re going up against… Kerry Kuroyama, is that right?”

Kerry.

My brain stumbles, grabbin’ blindly for a schedule I don’t ‘member readin’. Nobody told me. Did management call? Did Fred or Rob or Anna say somethin’? Did I miss a meetin’? Where was I on Monday? A dark, terrifyin’ blank opens up in my head. Another hole. Forty-eight hours gone, just like that.

“Now,” Graham leans in, lowerin’ his voice into that dramatic, prime-time register. “We all know the history there. Culture Shock 2025. That brutal ladder match. Kerry took the win that night, didn’t he?”

The audience goes quiet.

“Now, Kerry Kuroyama, he’s no frills and no bull. Just pure, technical perfection,” Graham says. “And he’s already proven that he can beat you, Daytona. So, I’ve gotta ask… heading into ReVival 92… are you scared?”

The room goes razor-thin. I can hear the hum of the camera lenses, the rustle of Graham’s suit, that awful, wet cadence of my own blood ragin’ in my ears.

He knows, a voice inside my head whispers. Cold. Flat. Horrible. They all know. They booked it behind your back ‘cause they want to strip you naked. They want the honor boy to take what’s yours. They’re laughin’ at you, Daytona. Can’t you hear them?

Even The Whoresmen knew.

Robby didn’t say a word.

Freddy couldn’t look you in the eyes.

Anna… hell, Anna gave you that pitying smile, didn’t she? The same one that redheaded assistant had by the curtain.

They didn’t tell you.

They’re just waitin’ for you to fall.

My right eye twitches. Just once.

Then, I force that mask right back onto my face.

I throw my head back and let out a big, boomin’, golden-boy laugh that fills the whole goddang studio. I lean forward, restin’ my forearms on my knees, starin’ straight into the main camera lens with a grin bright enough to blind ‘em.

“Scared of Kerry…?” I ask, tiltin’ my hat up with one finger. “Shitfire! C’mon, Graham! Kerry’s a fine athlete. Helluva wrassler! Real traditional, real… disciplined.”

I chuckle, shakin’ my head. “But Culture Shock was a long, long time ago, Graham. I was a different man back then. I was chasin’ the sun. Now? I am the sun.”

One more smile, just to reel ‘em in.

“Kerry can bring all the discipline he wants, but listen here,” I say. “When he steps in that ring with me? He ain’t wrestlin’ a match. He’s steppin’ into a fuckin’ hurricane.”

The audience erupts. Graham’s clappin’ his hands together. My heart’s slammin’ so hard I can feel it in my teeth. My right hand is clapped ‘round the strap of the belt so tight my knuckles are turnin’ chalk white, but on the outside? On the outside, I’m pure gold

I’m Alan Jackson on a jet ski, ridin’ down the Chattahoochee at full-speed.

I’m Dale Earnhardt leadin’ the pack in the Winston 500.

I’m the king of the fuckin’ world, the man they all wish they was.

“There he is!” Graham shouts over the noise. “The Universal Champ, Daytona Diamonds! ReVival 92! August 7th! Don’t miss it!”

The applause rolls over me in a suffocatin’ wave. Graham’s mouth is movin’. He’s laughin’. He’s pointin’. He’s sayin’ somethin’ else for the folks at home, but I don’t hear a goddang thing. Just a low, persistent buzz.

I stare at the main camera lens, the big red tally light glintin’ off the gold restin’ on my knees. For a half-second, the studio floor ‘neath my boots feels soft as sand. I grip the leather strap ‘til my thumb goes numb ‘gainst the rivets.

Smile, Daytona. Give ‘em the teeth.

I flex my jaw, stretchin’ the skin over my cheekbones ‘til my face aches. The crowd is on their feet now. Red-faced men hootin’ and hollerin’, little kids on their daddy’s shoulders. They don’t see the panic I’m feelin’, the way my vision’s startin’ to blur ‘round the edges. They just see a man who looks like he owns every square inch of the sky.

I stand up and sling the belt back over my shoulder, flashin’ a double-fingergun salute. Wavin’. Smilin’. Shakin’ hands.

Playin’ the hero.

Bein’ the champ.

Bein’ the king of the wor–

III

The studio lights don’t fade. They just collapse inward.

One second, I’m wavin’ at the crowd, and the next, I’m jammed into the corner of a dressin’ room, back pressed flat ‘gainst the drywall.

I don’t ‘member walkin’ back through the curtains or the maze of hallway leadin’ to the room or the assistants dancin’ ‘round me like flies on a carcass… but I sure as hell ‘membered to lock the door. The heavy leather couch is wedged up tight ‘neath the handle, barricadin’ me inside.

Outside, in the corridor, folks are talkin’. Muffled voices and heavy boots pacin’ back and forth on the linoleum.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Mr. Diamonds? You in there, man? Network needs a quick bumper shot before you wrap up.”

I don’t even breathe.

They know.

They know I’m missin’ time. They know I didn’t know ‘bout Kerry. They know it’s all one big act, that the man they see on TV ain’t the same man in person. They’re standin’ out there with their keys and clipboards, waitin’ for me to step outside so they can see the crack in the gold, so they can wrap me up in a straitjacket, so they can take what’s mine.

“Mr. Diamonds…?”

“Gimme a minute!” I shout back, voice gone raspy like I just swallowed a handful of gravel. “Just… changin’ my clothes!”

“Alright, champ. Five minutes!”

Footsteps fade down the hall. I slump down the wall ‘til my ass hits the carpet, gaspin’ for air like a drownin’ dog.

My duffel bag’s unzipped on the desk ‘neath the white glare of two dozen vanity lightbulbs. I didn’t wanna do this. Swore I was done with it… but my hands are shakin’ and my eyes are bulgin’ and my vision is startin’ to collapse in on itself. I’m grippin’ one of the last syringes of steroids I got left. Been takin’ small doses, easin’ myself off, taperin’ down…

But right now?

I jam the needle straight through the denim and into my left thigh, slammin’ the plunger all the way down. The plastic barrel quivers ‘gainst my leg with every beat of my heart. First full dose of gear I’ve taken in months.

Right beside me, the Universal Championship is sprawled ‘cross an end table. Right ‘cross the center plate, four neat little lines of cocaine. Somethin’ else I swore off a few months back. I don’t even know where I got the baggy from. Found it in the bottom of my bag and just…

I lean over the gold plate and snort two lines.

The coke hits first; a bitter, chemical frost blastin’ down the back of my throat. Then the steroids kick in from behind, thick and greasy, pumpin’ through my liver ‘til my vision burns red ‘round the edges. Sweat pours off my forehead, drippin’ off the tip of my nose and splatterin’ straight onto my own name etched in gold.

I push myself up on shaky legs and stare straight into the vanity mirror.

The lightbulbs surroundin’ the glass are blazin’ hot. The man lookin’ back at me ain’t no Universal Champion.

His eyes are all wrong; pupils like pinpricks trapped inside a bloodshot, yellowed abyss. Sweat’s runnin’ down his cheeks in crooked tributaries. I stare at my own reflection, but for two terrible seconds, the glass warps. I don’t see Daytona Diamonds. I see my daddy. I see the old man’s lips contortin’ into a hideous, yellow-toothed smile.

They’re countin’ your bad nights, boy.

I can hear him laughin’ from sixty feet underground, swillin’ cheap gin, waitin’ for me to join him in the dirt.

“I ain’t you,” I croak out, pressin’ my hands ‘gainst the glass. “I’m the champ. I’m Daytona fuckin’ Diamonds!”

They planned it, the thoughts claw at my skull like rats in a wall. Lindsay fuckin’ Troy. Graham fuckin’ Mercer. The Whoresmen… You saw the way Robby looked at the belt. He was smilin’, but it weren’t a real smile. He wants it. They all want it. They’re waitin’ for Kerry to break you so they can pick the meat off my bones. They think you’re weak.

My hand dives into my front pocket, fingers frantically searchin’ ‘til they crush that diner napkin Elaine gave me. WRITE THINGS DOWN. My anchor. My goddang anchor.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

This time, the door rattles ‘gainst the sofa.

“Mr. Diamonds? Hey, we really need t–”

“Go away!” I scream, voice crackin’ into a serrated edge. “Leave me the fuck alone!”

“Are you okay, Mr. Diamonds? What’s going on in there?”

I spin ‘round, grabbed by a sudden, blind panic. I grab a black Sharpie off the counter. I look at the mirror, then down at Elaine’s napkin. My thumb smudges her neat, capitalized print into a useless blur of blue ink.

I drag the Sharpie ‘cross the glass of the vanity mirror, pressin’ so hard the felt tip squeals, blockin’ out my own reflection with four jagged, black words:

THE BELT AIN’T YOURS

I step back, pantin’, chest heavin’. I drop Elaine’s napkin to the floor. Them four words, they ain’t a reminder to keep things straight, to keep myself ‘tween the lines. They’re a confession; a verdict written by my own hands in black ink.

Outside, the doorhandle jiggles violently ‘gainst my barricade. “Mr. Diamonds! Open the door or we’re calling security!”

I don’t answer. I drop the Sharpie, step ‘cross the room, and scoop the Universal Championship up into my arms. The leather’s cold. The gold plate’s smeared with white powder and sweat. I pull it tight ‘gainst my chest, huggin’ it like a mother holdin’ a sick child, and sink down into the dark corner beside the sofa.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

I curl up on the carpet, clutchin’ the heavy gold strap like it's the only thing keepin’ me from spinnin’ off the edge of the world, starin’ at the door as the wood begins to groan ‘gainst the weight on the other side.

“You’re mine,” I whisper to the belt. “You’re mine.”

The words hang in the room.

They don’t sound right.

They don’t even sound convincin’.

But right now, jammed in the corner of a dressin’ room, outta space and outta time and outta my goddang mind…

Well, shit.

They’re the closest thing to a prayer I got left.