Stages, The First Of

Black steel made a shield, through yellowed spittle, from the torrential yolk pouring from above, but its duty was not yet done. This was the final moment; the end to The COOLympian. The nerves in Brandon’s fingers and palms slavered for the reverberating result of the coming swing, scintillating sensation shooting throughout his body that, upon impact, would become transcendent. After everything.

Nearly five years.

Three oh.

The End.

His body burned, sweat stinging skin sliced open through shards of glass he himself had stowed away, nary a consideration for their removal. For so much of...whatever THIS had been...he’d spent pushing forward, unyielding, unstoppable. Bandit after Bandit, thrown away. Trash. Chris Chickentenders. Zeb Martin. Doozer. Tony Gamble. Lazer. Big Ian Salt by proxy, into the embrace of a flaming table. Max Shell had been run off. There was no one left to save Jiles.

Utterly.

Perfect.

Brandon afforded himself a smile in this den of Banditry, this heart of Hell.

But a moment spent is a moment of mercy afforded.

When the killing blow is readied, pull the trigger, lest the moment becomes mere vapor.

And so it did, under salted lash. An all or nothing, obfuscating shield morphed into a hammer, The Diamond’s skull the nail.

Pucker.

Kiss.

Goodnight.

In an instant, all sense became engulfed in a pool of tar black.

Brandon’s eyes flickered open. The moment they did, the realization was crystal; waking when the last cognizant memory involves the wrestling ring never bodes toward success. He tried to bolt upright, finding himself unable. Surrounding him, underpinning the background, the faint blare of sirens. The dome light above illuminated his surroundings. The back of an ambulance. A natural progression. The bleat of the EKG, the sticky sensation of electrodes stabbed across his naked chest. Cannula violated his nostrils. A hand, his own, weakly moving to pull everything away.

His movement was halted at the wrist, a powerful grip refusing progress. Brandon’s eyes darted in the direction of the offender, unsure how their strength could overcome his own. “Don’t you dare pull those off, you fucking mark.” The eyes behind Big Ian Salt’s lenses gleamed with malice. Youngblood thought he smelt burnt flesh; the mammoth’s baby blue button down affirmed such with its litany of cindered pockmarks. “Only mark bitches ruin hard work done by the working man. Fuck you.”

Was this...some kind of joke? The 2300 Arena was the beating heart of Bandit Country, but the rest of Philadelphia wasn’t ruled by it to such an extent that they controlled vital services. Right? “...don’t you fucking touch me–”

“–listen, mark,“ Big Ian’s voice bellowed, “you need to relax. You had a big baby shit. Went wah and fell down. And like all good eggs, we have to figure out how to put you back together again.” From his perch, Salt lifted a leather wallet, rifling through its contents.

Youngblood wrenched toward him, to lift himself from the gurney. No movement. Was the leather cuff fixed to the railing and attached around his wrist always there? “Don’t you–”

The plastic cards from within were engulfed by the sheer meaty density of his fingers. “What do you think this is? The Stanisloviet Union? Healthcare ain’t free here. I’m just doing my hard working man job that I learnt from the hardest working man in–” a pause. He couldn’t contain his laughter as he scanned the card before him. “PRIME Insurance?”

The comment offended some deep rooted sense of loyalty. “It’s always treated me well–”

“–oh has it?” Big Ian couldn’t help but laugh, the sound reverberating off the walls. The distant wail of sirens, of blips of EKG, his roars, they all stopped under the numbing tolling of a bell. It was enough to make Brandon wince. Salt’s hands flashed around a stethoscope, placing it across The Diamond’s chest. “Take a deep breath.” He did so, despite the person making the order. “Hmm. You need to sit up a bit, mark.”

How could he? His wrist was tethered…

No.

No it wasn’t anymore.

Without even knowing, he had scooted his upper body from the gurney, the chestpiece finding purchase along the midpoint of his back. Deep breath. “I’m feeling fine.”.

Salt looked at the readings. “Are you a heavy smoker, mark?”

Brandon’s eyebrow furrowed. “I smoke a cigar every once in a while. That’s–”

“Ha. Ha. Oh...you poor...poor mark

Time moves forward in a linear motion, yet he doesn’t know how he left the ambulance and arrived where he found himself now. Cold. The air was cold. A low, baby blue light spanned across the eggshell white ceiling, and how he knew the original color, he did not know, and yet, he did know. He was wrestling and he had an accident and now he was being taken care of. Battle damage. A familiar routine done time and time again. Flat on his back, his gown matching the color of the light. He remembered something about imaging. An MRI machine. But it wasn’t the only one in the room. The walls surrounding him had bays of their own, with metal doors with hinges for locking. Each one was occupied, but who was inside was swallowed in black, save their legs and the soles of their feet and the tags strung along a big toe for each pair.

He couldn’t read them, yet still knew their names.

Caesar Vega.

Teddy Palmer.

Julian Bathory.

Jacob Mephisto.

Terry Woods.

Jonathan Christopher-Hall.

Don Winters.

Coral Avalon.

Coral Avalon, who was climbing out of his bay, his feet smacking against the tile below. His skin was frosted blueberry blue, but for whatever reason, a golden aura surrounded his visage.

“You really should cover up.” The words fell from The Diamond’s lips.

The King of Conquerors straightened himself up, his fingers strumming across a yoke around his neck that had always been there. Had it? “Don’t worry, Brandon. Just embrace it.”

“What. Being naked–”

“Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey there–” The voice was shrill, hurting his ears, even while covered with his palms. He glowered in the direction, his disgust instant. Vickie Hall thought herself quite the catch in her nurse uniform, the skirt way too short and the top way too tight. Was the Valkyrie wearing three sets of eyelashes? “–now you keep still, okay?”

The bell tolled again. Suddenly, his stomach flooded with nausea. Given present company, many would share the same sensation. But this...was different. More...urgent. He couldn’t move no matter what he did.

“You better keep still because I know you. You ruin EVERYTHING for me. You RUIN EVERYTHING. EVERY TIME. I just WANTED TO LOVE. I just wanted my HALLMARK JOURNEY but YOU...”

Meekly, he cried out. “...Coral...help...”

“...but we GOT you this time...”

Suddenly, the MRI bed slid inside the tube, and once deposited, a violent shake, the magnets within churning.

“...you’re FINALLY going to pay...”

Pay.

Confidence or arrogance, laid out, terms declared.

Pay.

There’s always a cost.

Pay.

Time to collect.

Collect.

Collecting his thoughts. Prefrontal and visual. Limbic.

A mahogany desk. Shelves of books behind Lindsay Troy, donning a blue and violet lab coat with golden epaulets and fringe. “–and you have nobody to blame but yourself…”

She was sitting on a throne made of...championship belts? All melted down just enough to be etched and woven into each other. So many different plates. How could she...how could she sit on such a thing. “Aren’t you...aren’t you uncomfortable...”

“–but you not only started this, you also took the bait–”

“–your chair. How can you sit in that–”

For a third time, the bell tolls for thee.

She sighed. “It’s...there’s no way to sugar coat this now. Brandon, your diagnosis...”

He tried to cut her off, but the moment he tried to open his mouth, he began to gag. From the back of his throat, he felt something rising from below. Thick. He tried to cough, tried to clear his throat, but all the effort managed to do was cause whatever was trapped inside his larynx to grow.

“It’s Terminal.”

Hands, clutching his chest. He knew what she was going to say, but the confirmation felt all the more...final. An utter Shock. “What do you...” he gurgled, a coughing fit ripping through him, taking over.

“Nothing to be done. Not now. And I’d say I’m sorry, but I can’t. Not with you dragging me into this–”

Past the larynx, skittering, crawling up his epiglottis. “You...” he croaked. “...you ASKED me to be there for...for Keyes–”

She merely tutted. “Don’t put this diagnosis on me. This burden is all your own. After all...”

He tried, angrily, desperately, to stand up, to shout, to do something, anything, but he couldn’t. Not through the thick rattling cough, the choking of oxygen, the feeling of something perverse, vile, filthy, disgusting...he hacked with all he had into open hands.

And there…

There HE was.

Scuttling about in his palms. Thick and bulbous, on wiry legs. Long antennae shooting out of a mane of immaculate platinum blonde, not a hair out of place. The Cockroach stared into his eyes through its T-Shades. “Once a Bandit...always a Bandit.”

Ha.

Ha.

A racking cough and startled eyes in the midst of hot re-entry into the waking world. A cacophony of buoyant celebration from the dripping filth encompassing him. Destruction precluded the clarion call of Screamin’ Jay. Without it? Is and isn’t. Schrodinger's Conclusion.

Floating.

He was floating.

Lolling head, taking in his surroundings.

...no...

He was being lifted.

...no...

He was to be carried away.

...no...

Energy. Oxygen. Hatred. Everything he had was spent.

No.

No it wasn’t.

The faces didn’t matter, nor did the bramble of limbs he found himself trapped within. The first bolt of defiance summoned retribution gestured from the conductor of this miasmic mass of bankrupted souls. Zeb Martin, Doozer, Tony Gamble, Bobby Dean, Big Ian Salt, they all struck in unison. He could tell the one true threat in the equation, the six foot ten inch behemoth who announced his Banditry at The Diamond’s expense at Culture Shock, was attacking from the lower left, pounding upon his leg and knee. Brandon knew if he didn’t push through, he would be truly lost.

And so he fought.

With everything he had, he fought.

One by one, tossed aside, the wellspring flowing inside him from someplace other. They didn’t stay in place as he bieled and belly-to-bellyed Bandits; it just didn’t matter. Martin flew. Doozer vanished upon impact onto the canvas of shattered fluorescents and jagged metal surprises. Gamble stood no chance, falling hard against his own shoulders on the bed of Hell Youngblood and Jiles had made for themselves.

Big.

Ian.

Snapping into action, Salt tried to manhandle him.

This mountain.

This son of a bitch.

No.

Youngblood ripped through him, latching onto his waist, a guttural roar coming from deep within as he jerked him clean from the canvas. The riotous mutants making up the crowd covered the sound with their bleating.

Right.

On.

Top.

Of.

His.

Head.

Five chair shots couldn’t fell him. Doctor COOLympian’s newest monster wouldn’t stay down for long. Bobby Dean flopped, willingly, onto the mat.

And there he was.

Cancer Jiles.

On his knees, his entire body pissing blood from all the wounds etched upon him. Yet still, even on this, his night, he sneered.

At the middle finger The Diamond threw his way.

Sneered.

As, despite everything, it was Brandon who was the one walking away.

Sneered.

As his greatest rival stood at the very entrance to this fetid maw, his wife in tow, the ultimate Denial of what had just transpired.

“–one of the worst times of the year to have an HVAC system go out.” Alex Creed motioned toward Brandon from the ring apron, a nonchalant smile spread across his face, the same he had much of the tour of Troy Combat Systems Boston. Six feet tall, the former fWo star still appeared in incredible shape.

Ultraviolence had passed weeks before. The healing process...well…“Yeah?” Youngblood sneered.

“You think we’re going to concoct some excuse just to inconvenience you when we had that visit scheduled with your son for months?” Vivica J Valentine was known as The Woman Without Fear. Five foot four, gymnast athletic build, her countenance belying the fact she would still be right at home in the pit for My Chemical Romance. From her perch atop the turnbuckle? She could’ve easily launched herself at him in any number of ways. They were anything but friends; in the period of The Diamond’s exile from PRIME in 2006, he made a stopover in PTC member promotion Global Championship Wrestling, and there, the two collided on multiple occasions. Each time, he came out on top. He was a different man back then, and she had yet to grow into the Hall of Famer and multiple time World Championship holding force she would become; all the same, he never once afforded her a modicum of respect. “Maybe that kick popped more than a few screws loose...”

You fucking bitch... Youngblood glowered in her direction, his shoulders coiling.

“That’s...enough, Viv.” The Mecca, son of the legendary Kodiak Vic Creed, and a multiple time champion in his own right, was the youngest of the war horses, but his temperament set him firmly as the most adult. “Just provided me with an opportunity to be here. Was surprised he didn’t choose to go to Vegas first–”

“Cody feels strongly in his amateur base. I think that’s why he wants to focus on learning as much as he can with a more wrestling forward approach–”

“Definitely knows how to attack the ropes.” Vivica cut him off. “And he just has no quit in him with the torture training. Was very impressed there. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen someone that early on just...grind through everything.”

Because all you trainers are the same. Every one of you. Avalon. Jake Colton. And I knew that. I knew that from the moment my son said he wanted to become a wrestler. You’re going to try and grind him up and reshape and remold him. “I wanted to make sure this was what he really wanted to do.”

Alex’s eyes lilted. “And there he is–”

Fresh from the locker room, Cody gingerly traipsed along the matted floors in fresh workout clothing. Hindu squats to fail, hitting the ropes incessantly, tuck and rolls, there was even a spring from the top rope, much to the shock of his old man. He threw back his mop of wet dirty blonde as he picked up his pace, falling in right beside his father, standing at attention. “Sorry for taking so long. Lost my...lunch.”

Vivica dropped from the turnbuckle. “You alright? We got electrolytes and something more solid if you want to replenish–” Like you actually give a shit

Creed was on the floor now, his height difference all the more stark as a result. A playful slap across the back. Fucking watch it. “I think you’ve shown off plenty. But before we go on, give you a more full tour of what Troy Combat Systems has to offer you, I have a question for you.”

Covington sharply inhaled. “Yeah?”

“I want you to tell me, in your own words, your own thoughts, just why you want to be a wrestler...”

For a moment, a pause. But then, his father wrapped his arm around his shoulder, drawing him in close. “Just...let it go from the heart.”

His son looked him in the eye and nodded before turning his attention toward Creed. “Well...I...I know I could stand here and tell you I want to do it for my family...but the truth is–”

And Brandon would have listened, had it not been for what he saw in the distance of the space.

Wade Elliott.

Lindsay Troy.

Tinnitus. His eyes locked in her direction, watching her move, the whole world slowing down. The anger reaching a boiling point. And you know why? Because I put my trust in you, Lindsay. I put my trust in you not just on that night, but over four years ago when PRIME returned, and all the things we talked about, that this would be a place where we could all be the best version of ourselves, that it would be about competition and skill and…

...you LIED to EVERYONE.

Not just lied. You…

You used me to launder WHATEVER the FUCK this...PRIME has become. Where every fucking jackal can hunt in a pack and those of us on the other side sit here like dipshits as they cheat and they steal and they ruin EVERYTHING they touch and you don’t give a goddamn shit, and you NEVER have, because the truth is, it’s about counting the cash at the end, not spilling your fucking bourbon, its about owning the wrestling world, collecting us all like little baubles, and I PUT JILES DOWN FOUR FUCKING YEARS AGO, BUT YOU KEPT LETTING HIM GET UP, STILL PUT HIM IN CONTENDERSHIP MATCHES, STILL KEPT HIM AROUND AFTER HE TOOK THE UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP TO CHICAGO and you let his cancer spread, you let him infect and worm his way into others...Avalon, Hessian...Big John Pepper–

“–and I want this for me. I want this because, for as long as I can remember, I wanted to BECOME wrestling Not for the money. I got that. I don’t need to worry about it. I can focus on this. Be the best version of who I can be in a sport that’s called out to me since the day I was born! And I ain’t spoiled. I NEED this. No bullshit! No shortcuts! The right way! Give me the chance.” Everyone in the gym was focused on the young man’s words, his frame quaking, his eyes quivering. “I’ll do all that shit we just did all over again if you don’t believe me. And if you don’t believe me after that? Then I’ll keep going!”

Everyone...except his own father, who couldn’t look at him. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t. Rising tide within his chest. A pensive raise of his finger.

He was awake but Brandon didn’t know how he arrived in the locker room, just that he had. Sitting in a stall. Away from everything. His stomach curdled.

I don’t got much time left and this is me trying to bargain for some more...because…

..I’ve tried to do right by the people I care about...the people I love...they’re my family. I…

I know I am against the clock.

Now more than ever.

Because what happened with Jiles...wouldn’t have happened four years ago. And I went away for a year, training, focusing on just one thing...one goddamn thing…

...Farthington…

...and the rest would take care of itself…

...but look at me. He’s gone. And even if he wasn’t, I’d be so far behind in the chase…

...no…

...my arrogance got me here. Stuck here. Lost here. Lost to...lost to him. 

His breathing was haphazard and rapid.

I came back and let him invade. I wanted to kick the hornet’s nest and thought I could just power through like I always had before. But I didn’t. And I couldn’t. And now…

...now I’m scared.

For the first time in my life in this sport...I am scared.

I’m scared of what is to come. Because I made the bed of Bandit thorns and I can’t run away from them, acting as if they aren’t there. And if I open myself even a little…

Coral was forced in, same as me. And so many would say look at him and what he achieved. I do. What did it cost him, though? He let...them...into his life. His wife. His daughter. Banditry. It’s funny enough when it’s Doozer and Bobby Dean. They’re chaff. But I remember Hessian for what he was; a man who nearly took my hearing from a single clap to the ear. A proud Hall of Famer. Someone I fought for gold with. 

Reduced to a sniveling henchman.

Big John Pepper. A smile, and a park ranger outfit, and looking like Teddy Roosevelt. Look at what has metastasized in him. Look what he’s become by embracing Banditry. Every scrap and piece of him is...changed. He’s not who he was. He’s just a weapon to be aimed now.

And I am scared and I don’t know if I have it inside myself to do what is necessary…

...I said if I lost at Ultraviolence, everything I have ever done, everything I ever am, will be for nothing…

...and I can accept that...

...but it’s not about me anymore...just...please…

...I need more strength...I need more time…

Tears poured from his eyes.

...and if you give it to me...I promise that I’ll sacrifice every bit of what I have left to make sure this world my son is walking into will be as safe as his father can make it.