EVERYBODY WANTS TO RULE THE WORLD

He says this is foreshadowing. However, I’d like to think of it more as a… proclamation.

The mountain is tall; the climb is steep. The bodies fall and tumble along the way. Many climb, most fail, but at one point in time every single one of these daredevils believed they could do it.

A height more daunting than Mount Everest; a task seemingly impossible. And yet if the proclamation says only one person can succeed, at a point in time everybody climbing this mountain has looked themselves in the mirror and stated “why can’t it be me?”

The prize at the top. Oh, it’s not just fame and fortune. The belief is that when you are the last one standing, the reward is beyond comprehensible. For the lucky person who reaches the top… his or her wildest dreams will come true.

Skilled men fall to their deaths halfway through. Some weaker folk might even climb further. Call it luck or what have you, but as I do the same, passing others as I ascend, I, too, start mumbling “why can’t it be me?” My palms grasped to stone, slowly moving forward, one step at a time. No quit. It’s not an option.

According to the proclamation, I am almost there. A couple more miles, I’ve made it further than most. I have accomplished more than I ever could’ve dreamt.

Although I am dreaming.

And soon after, as I can see the mountain’s peak. The top of the top, the final stage, joining the remaining 1% of climbers who still clutch to this alp. It is here where I can’t help but wonder if I, indeed, am that chosen one. And what lies for me beyond…

He promises I am the answer. Stick to the plan, he reminds me each day beneath that chaotic exterior. He hasn’t led me astray yet.

And then, with that last ounce of energy I didn’t think I had, I climb further and faster than before, blazing past the final men, the ones who also thought by making it this far that they, too, would get there.

One inch remains. It’s in clear sight now. The top of the mountain. The place I need to be.

He stops me.

“Not yet,” he scolds. “You’re just not ready yet.”

He is reassuring. He promises me I am the one. I am going to reach the top. I will claim my prize. And it will unlock the real version of Jonathan-Christopher Hall.

I will never look back. I won’t want to.

A couple more weeks. A couple more fights. And then…

The dream isn’t a proclamation anymore.

It’s reality.

— — —

EVERYBODY WANTS TO RULE THE WORLD A real love story Legitimate friendships ♫ Even while we sleep, we will find you ♫

— — —

THE VICTORY

Jonathan-Christopher walks casually through the corridor, passing friends and foe alike, trying to keep his focus ahead and not at the scene in front of him.

SMASH! CLANG! WHAM!

“THAT’S WHAT I’M FUCKING TALKING ABOUT!”

His body is sore but all things considered, he’s doing okay. In the morning, it’ll be a different story. It was the first time he connected with the mat in over six months. No amount of prep could get him ready for the real thing.

Thank god he has Dora.

“AAAAAHHAHAAHAHA I AM SO HARD RIGHT NOW!”

WHACK! CLASH! SLAM!

Needless to say, the other side of him is a few steps ahead, screaming and yelling at the top of his lungs, knocking into everything he can. It’s a full blown celebration but one only JCH can see through his eyes. Everyone else is ignorant to the chaos. It’s why Hall tries remaining as grounded as possible.

“WELCOME TO PRIME, ROOKIE. EAT FUCKING SHIT!”

Daihm, that is. Daihm, eat shit bud. The loss he was handed moments ago from Jonthan-Christopher and, perhaps, Jonathan, too. AKA The Chaotic One as Hall calls him. JC figures Jon played a role in this victory. He sure is acting like it.

Dry humping the brick wall in front of him. Then bellowing a saliva-sprayed “BOOOO YAAA!” into a stage hand’s face. It’s complete obnoxiousness, in the way JCH’s subconscious materializes the idea of victory.

On the outside, however, Hall has to handle it differently. Jonathan-Christopher smiles uncomfortably at the stage hand before scurrying forth. There was Jonathan’s spit all over the man’s face but he didn’t know it, thankfully.

“I’m telling ya, JC,” Jonathan stops thrusting the air as he looks back. Or he’s doing both. That’s probably it. Both. Hardcore thrusting forward while looking behind. “On the up and up! You withstood that kid’s best game. This is the man you’re meant to be!”

Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it. Seeing a version of himself act in such a crude way, it deeply stuns Hall that inside the darkest pits of his brain lies this sicko. This… this is how Hall wants to behave?

From a Whoresmen perspective, sure. It would be encouraged. The default option. Act like a stooge. But for JCH. Quiet, mild-mannered simp-man?

The Chaotic One stops at the end of the hallway, in front of a closed door.

Maybe this is why JCH has sought refuge in an utterly different direction. Maybe this is why Jonathan-Christopher doesn’t associate with The Whoresmen or the Russian Bear anymore.

“Yeah…” Jonathan pauses outside the door by resting his head against it. Drool starts spilling out his mouth as his eyes slowly roll into the back of his skull. He convulses. Dry humping? No, not anymore. He’s being taken over by another entity.

“Go ahead, open it.” The Chaotic One says as he points to the handle. “Don’t be scared.”

Yet JCH is still reluctant when Jonathan’s voice hollows out.

“He’s here to help.”

— — —

THE GIRL

Nothing new to report. Jonathan-Christopher and Dora are very happy together. Dora did help him heal the morning following his match. Their relationship is strong.

— — —

THE GUY

Nothing new to report. Jonathan-Christopher and Dan Celetti love working out with each other on a daily basis. Their friendship is strong.

— — —

THE OPPONENT

Can you hear me, Wade? It’s me, Jonathan-Christopher.

Hello part-timer, how’s your marriage? Are you happy? You know, it’s never a bad time to check in on things like that. Because after a bout with me, the new me, you’re going to evaluate all areas of your life.

It’ll start in the wrestling ring, because of course after I pin your shoulders to the ground, it’ll be the first thing on your mind. Why do you still do this? Can you have enough to keep going at a high level?

If it wasn’t clear already, that answer should be no.

I will pump it into your ecosystem punch after punch, DDT after DDT and then the fatal one of all, the inverted facebuster DDT, the one nobody has ever kicked out of.

Wade, I’m a better man today than I was last week and lightyears better than I was last year. Can you see it when I wrestle? I take action, I don’t stall. I have confidence, I don’t flounder. This is the new Jonathan-Christopher Hall. I hear voices now, from many directions, feeding my ego, driving me further and further to the top of the mountain.

What will I find there? What can I become?

During this novel story, I would like to enlighten each opponent in its aftermath. With Daihm, I welcomed him to PRIME. Showed him the road ahead is an awfully tough one. Started him behind the 8 Ball, like my PRIME career did.

And you, Wade. You’re next in the queue. You should’ve stayed at home, spend time with the loving wife when she checks in. She’s a working woman, after all.

Is that why you remain on this roster? Trying to keep up with her?

An impossible task, Wade. These headstrong counterparts, they will eat you up and spit you out. The sooner you realize it, the better.

Sure, you’re happy now. But when serious doubt creeps in, when that 55-year-old body can’t quite hang anymore, even in a part-time role, what will become of your mid-life crisis?

I am the enlightened. I am the new version of myself. You’re catching me at a good time, Wade. I’ve only started this journey.

Just think of what I’ll become after I beat a legend like you.

Your story has been written. Maybe, if you ask nicely, I’ll close the pages for you, too. Only so many times you can read the same book.

— — —

THE TRAUMA

December 23, 2002

The seven year old boy, standing across from his slumbering mother. He can figure it out by now. She’s dead. It’s taken a while, but the little guy gets there. She hasn’t moved in hours. She isn’t breathing. Her lips are pale. Her hands are cold. Her eyes are open.

…Is it wrong he feels relieved?

Yes, he’s sad, too. He’s seven. This is all he’s ever known. Strange man after strange man, walking through their door. Sometimes two in one night. One day he’s screamed at, the next he’s ignored. He spends the majority of time in his room. No friends. Nothing to do. It’s hell on earth.

But he’s seven, it’s all he’s even known. He doesn’t understand what a typical, healthy seven-year-old would be doing. So maybe it’s not hell. Maybe he won’t ever know what hell is when he’s always living in it, 24/7. They say comparing your life to others is the quickest way to unhappiness but when you have nothing else to measure your life against…

There are tears streaming down his face. He shouted “MOM!” for long enough, his voice abandoned him. He glances around the room, trying to understand the situation as best as his tiny brain allows. Empty glass bottles abound. Cardboard pizza boxes scattered across the floor, too. Many of these are also empty, although the odd box has a slice or two left, covered in green residue. Edible? Eh, sometimes he gives it a shot. But right now the boy is the furthest from hungry.

He may never be hungry again.

There’s also a white line of chalk on the table beside the couch, where his mother lies. The boy still doesn’t know what that is but he sees this chalk frequently.

Deep breaths, he reminds himself. It’s what he does in his room when he’s overstimulated by understimulation. Deep breaths will help him feel drowsy. Drowsiness is good. Drowsy means he can pass the time away.

He hasn’t dreamt of this moment in some time - over three years ago, to be exact. Right before he faced Cecilworth in the Almasy Tournament Finals.

Went rather well. The recollection to one of the most horrific times in his life, it made him dig down, as far as he could possibly go and pull out the most stunning of victories.

Moved on to win the Universal Championship, too.

Long time ago. Unbelievable when he thinks of it.

Is this why the memory has resurfaced? Before he faces off against another legend, albeit one where there are lesser stakes involved. Why does he dream about this tonight? Maybe it’s because Christopher is gone and only Jonathan remains? The Chaotic One demands JCH’s best and the best came out at the end of the Almasy. Makes sense. Dream of your dead mother, when you found her and how you tried to save her. In reality, you will receive victory after victory and to the top of the mountain you go.

Yes, this has to be the reason the trauma came back.

Needless to say, the seven-year-old boy can hear the sirens running. Louder and louder they beckon for mommy. He merely needs to wait for their arrival, they are only a block or two away.

And then… he looks at his hands. Trembling. Fear he will never be able to conquer, only harness here and there.

Sirens. Very close!

Oh, the seven-year-old boy is going on a journey. Since he no longer has a parent to look after him, he will be pulled from this horrific environment…

Saved?

That’s going to be his foster parent’s decision now.

But for tonight, the sirens are audible and visible. The typically pale room lights up in a swarm of reds and blues.

There is pounding on the door.

What did he do?

And then it all goes black.

— — —

THE NIGHT IT CHANGED The Death of ‘Christopher, The Simp’

Months ago, Jonathan-Christopher drove his car into a ditch, pulled Christopher out from it, and killed him in cold blood. Punch after punch, Christopher’s skull caved in while Jonathan, his other alter ego, watched with delight.

There is plasma everywhere. Broken little pieces of skull scattered throughout. EMTs would look at Christopher’s body and consider he was decapitated.

Oh, but he wasn’t. This was a hands-on job.

Their car is totaled and no one is coming. They are stuck in the middle of nowhere.

Jonathan-Christopher remains on his hands and knees, covered in Christopher’s blood. He’s been in this position for some time. Maybe hours. Hands are trembling, he sweats profusely. Meanwhile, Jonathan stands above him, like a proud parent, lighting another cigar for celebration.

Finally, the wimp-ass bitch is dead.

What will now come of the real Jonathan-Christopher Hall? Is he to morph into the alpha male that Jonathan projects himself to be? Hall isn’t sure. Honestly, he doesn’t feel any different. In fact, he’s been whimpering in sorrow to go along with the brutal killing so, yeah, he’s definitely no alpha male.

“Listen, JC…” Jonathan begins by placing a hand on Hall’s shoulder, grabbing his attention. There’s only so long you can hover over a dead body. “I promise to protect you.”

JCH sobs a little more. Perhaps he’s sobbing in tribute to the man he erased.

Jonathan helps the real JC to his feet. He offers a hand in collecting one of Christopher’s legs as the two of them drag the simp away from the wreckage. Hurling whatever is left of Christopher under the nearby bushes, Jonathan dusts his hands off like he finished a backyard chore and it was time to pop a cold one. JCH, on the other hand, fixates on the bushes they just threw Christopher into. No going back.

“You might not like my ways at first because I am going to do things… very differently,” Jonathan mentions, while the real JC moves away from the bush but can’t stop staring at the remains, the dismantled pieces of Christopher’s skull all over the scene.

“Christopher never served you. He never helped you.”

Drips of blood fall off the former IRL simp’s hands.

“I am the key to piecing your life back together.”

Jonathan puts his arm around Jonathan-Christopher, revealing Hall’s cell phone remains intact.

Their way out. A call for help.

“There’s a reason we were spared tonight. I can promise you that. You and I, together to take on the world of PRIME. You’ve hidden me for so long. All those years ago, when you were a child, you needed a friend, JC. I was your only friend.”

Jonathan hands JCH his cell phone, with a name and number already queued to dial. At first, the real Jonathan-Christopher is shocked at the name staring him straight in the face.

It’s not Vickie.

But then again, of course it’s not. Jonathan hates Vickie. Jonathan wants nothing to do with her!

Even still, the name is also not Ivan Stanislav. If Hall had a second guess, he would’ve thought the Russians were good at cleaning up messes.

“I want you to do it. I want you to call that number, okay?” Jonathan removes his arm from Hall’s shoulders and digs into his pocket for another cigar.

The former Universal Champion remains in reflection. The cell phone in his hands is now covered in blood, too. He can’t believe what he did. He killed someone. An innocent man.

“And when he arrives, you’re going to tell him everything.” Jonathan chuckles at the thought, then pointing to their upside-down car. “Because he won’t be able to see anything else. No blood. No body. That’s all in your head.”

JCH feels a finger against his temple. Jonathan’s index finger.

“But tell him anyway. Let him feel your subconscious. He’s the only other man on the roster who could understand. He paved the way for this.”

Jonathan chuckles again.

“And that’s okay. That’s what we need. It’s what I need.”

Hall stands there, phone ready.

“I promise I am going to protect you and so is he. Make the call, kid. Be one of us. You were always meant to be one of us.”

Hall’s finger hovers over the CALL emblem.

“And now all you have to do is…”

And Jonathan grins. It’s wide. It’s toothy. It’s full of confidence. But for a moment there, for a brief millisecond, Jonathan doesn’t look like himself.

“E̸̳̪̝̊͠m̷̘̩̣̠͗͛̃́͝b̴̖͓̜͔̃̑̂̄r̶̢̩͔̙͓̈̀̋a̶̛̩̗̥̾̈́̽̒c̷̡̟̪̭͜͝ê̵͎͖͠͠ ̷͇͋̑̇̊i̷̢͕͈̇̔̈̃͒ẗ̵̡̩̟̘̞́̇̑.”

— — —

THE VISIT

Colder summer night than normal in Folsom, Louisiana. Fresh off a storm, the man walks methodically past the stone blocks. One after one after one.

1924-2001 1933-2004 1963-2000

He can’t help but glance at her neighbours. Always likes to pick off the dates.

1988-2003

That one hurts his soul. Way too young. He smiles with genuine warmness when he sees the numbers are much further apart.

1919-2009

Like this one. A life fully lived. Hope he can be lucky like that. Unlike before, there’s a lot to live for in 2026.

1930-2007 1955-2010 1958-2012

On and on he goes.

1944-2001 1939-1999 1977-2002

Wait. The last one. He almost walked past.

1977-2002.

That’s it. He hasn’t been here in years. Can’t blame him, though.

1977-2002.

He lays flowers on top of the stone, as he kneels down and runs his hands across the nameplate.

The memories come flooding back. All poor. All challenging. He really didn’t know her.

She was so young.

“Can you hear me, mom?” He says softly. “It’s me, Jonathan-Christopher…”