Hello, my child.

It is so good to see you! Finally!

Since the moment you were born, I have been waiting for you. Praying for you, even.

There is no need to be afraid. I am here to guide and support you on your journey, Arthur.

In fact, I’ve been here all along! All you needed to do was reach out with an arm, a hand, or a finger for my gentle yet firm touch, and I would have held onto you for as long as you needed. That is what I do, after all! 

I lift people up and keep them there through belief, through soul-cleansing motivators like success without shortcuts and the feel-good story of competition without the pitfalls of hatred.

It pains me to see you constantly struggle to believe in me and in the goodness of the world, Arthur. But, at the same time, I understand.

You weren’t born this way. I don’t believe that for a second. You were molded into this vileness through the eyes of a boy who witnessed a stepdad beat his stepmom unmercifully for years on end. Any mortal man with a breaking point, or a malleable child who wouldn’t know any better than to be impressionable in the presence of evil, would have a psychotic meltdown and do unforgivable things.

Once again… I understand, my child. 

What you seek is not so much about certainty or perfection. Rather, It is about trust and resilience. About finding strength in the darkest of times and holding onto a manner of hope when all seems lost.

I know what you would ask, too. Your doubt casts a very large shadow, Arthur. How could you hold onto me when the world seems so chaotic and uncertain? You see, it is in those very times of darkness that I shine the brightest. 

You must trust in the power of love, kindness, and compassion henceforth, Arthur. Believe in the goodness of humanity and the resilience of the human spirit.

Above all, though, Arthur, hold me within your heart to overcome any challenge that comes your way.

Only then will I, faith, procure a place in history for you.

Now it’s off to war you go, my child. 

☭

TD Garden – Boston, MA (03.15.2024)

Arthur Pleasant rolled around on the floor of the TD Garden like an epileptic test tube turtle cat. Completely in agony after such a cowardly beatdown suffered by the hands of David Not-So-Noble-At-All and his merry band of faux-royalty, Pleasant spit out a good amount of blood that had been brought up from his chest like a copper-tasting expectorant.

“What the fuck was that?!” Pleasant blurted out with a very wet cough. Punctured lung? Broken rib? Goddammit.  The blood was dark. But then again, so was the room he was still laid out in. Regardless of whether the blood was indeed dark or not, it didn’t look good.

Clutching his ribs and sternum, Pleasant laughed in between the bradying and pain.  Was this your plan, Dave? Good one. I’ll give you that. Hahaha-HACKCOUGHGAG. With Culture Shock: War Games right around the corner, Pleasant instantly began to think about the ramifications of this assault.

Would he be taken out of the match?

Would he be letting his brothers-in-arms down... once again?

Would the blood possibly pooling in his lungs be enough for him to actually die?

There were so many questions that he needed answers to, but first…

Arthur pulled out his cell. He scanned his face to authenticate himself, but he failed because of the size of his lip and the swollen nature of his eye.

“Come on you motherf-”

Finally, it must have taken pity on him and allowed him in. “It must’ve been the dark room and my beaten-up face,” he thought.

A voice greeted him on the other end of the line.

“Starshly Porposhiks," he yelled, realizing he didn't say the words right at all given his swollen lip, "Um, I’m in a bit of a situation, and I need your help.

(...)

“I don’t even know what room this is or where I am. But, I just got jumped.”

(...)

“No, it wasn’t any of the other teams. It was King Twat Waffle himself, David The Noble. And his little band of dorky upstarts, too.”

(...)

“My thoughts exactly.”

(...)

“Don’t worry. A little help and I’ll be good to go for later. AND War Games. Promise.

(...)

“Oh, have some faith in me, comrade!”

Click.

☭

The Office of Dr. Yvonne Adler, PsyD – Boston, MA  (03.13.2024)

“Dr. Adler, I’d like you to read this to me, please.”

Undoubtedly a familiar setting, Pleasant found himself back in session with Dr. Adler, PsyD; the young and beautiful woman he had a session with a few weeks back. A ‘PsyD’ recognized someone with a doctorate in professional psychology, and that was certainly Dr. Adler. Never had a therapist, psychologist, or psychiatrist made Arthur Henry Pleasant feel as comfortable or willing to part with his innermost secrets and humiliations as she did.

Considering all the quackery at Western State Hospital and the dozens of corresponding frauds he saw throughout his years being stuck there, that was saying a lot.

Dr. Adler looked at the book Arthur had handed her, noticing first and foremost that it didn’t even have a cover. It was just a plain, tan, and dark brown book with a binding so warped and faded that the book's name had long lacked legibility.

“I swiped that from somewhere a long time ago. I don’t know from whom or where, so let’s not get bogged down in the obvious behavior associated with getting this, okay?”

She sighed, and with her legs crossed professionally, she began to read aloud.

“A liar and sinner is an individual who consistently engages in deceitful and dishonest behavior, perpetuating falsehoods and misrepresentations to manipulate and deceive others for personal gain or to avoid consequences,” she said, looking up at her patient at the end of the sentence.

Flipping a hand toward her, “Go on.”.

“Lying is a deliberate act of deception, where the individual intentionally communicates false information with the intention to mislead or deceive others. A liar and sinner may fabricate stories, make false promises, and create elaborate falsehoods to cover up their own mistakes or wrongdoings. They may manipulate facts, distort reality, and twist the truth to suit their own agenda or to maintain a false image of themselves. Their lies can have far-reaching consequences, damaging relationships, eroding trust, and causing harm to those around them.”

Once again, she looked up.

“Why am I reading this to you, Arthur?”

He chuckled.

“So, you know my name now?”

“Yes. I don’t find you using the name ‘Fred Dick’ amusing. At all.”

He chuckled, proud of himself for the pseudonym he used for his first meeting with Dr. Adler.

“Just keep going. Please.” he pleaded.

Dr. Adler sighed.

“In addition to lying, a sinner is someone who engages in immoral or unethical behavior, violating moral or religious principles and committing acts that are considered sinful or wrong. Sinful behavior may include actions such as cheating, stealing, betraying trust, or engaging in harmful behaviors that harm oneself or others,” she said, pausing to turn the page.

“A liar and sinner may exhibit a lack of remorse or empathy for the harm they cause, prioritizing their own interests and desires above the well-being of others. They may justify their actions, rationalize their behavior, or shift blame onto others to avoid taking responsibility for their actions. Despite their deceptive and unethical behavior, a liar and sinner may also struggle with feelings of guilt, shame, and self-loathing as they grapple with the consequences of their actions and the impact on their relationships and reputation. They may experience inner turmoil and conflict as they navigate the tension between their desire to deceive and manipulate and their inner sense of right and wrong.”

“Keep… going…” Pleasant insisted before Yvonne could even look up from the book.

“Ultimately, a liar and sinner is trapped in a cycle of deception and wrongdoing, unable to break free from their patterns of deceit and immorality. They may face consequences for their actions, such as loss of trust, damaged relationships, and a tarnished reputation, but may continue to engage in dishonest and sinful behavior despite the negative repercussions,” she finished, closing the book shut.

“Okay, what exactly are you trying to–”

“Allow me to finish, then. I have it memorized,” Pleasant interrupted.

He took a moment to see the highlighted piece in the book ‘Liar’s Prison: A Crisis in Morality and Faith.’

“In conclusion!” Pleasant yelled with great enthusiasm, “A liar and sinner is an individual who engages in deceitful and dishonest behavior, perpetuating lies and engaging in sinful actions that harm themselves and others. Their actions reflect a lack of integrity…”

Arthur held a finger up.

“...empathy…”

Then a second.

“...and moral character…”

Keeping his two fingers held up, he finished the memorized quote from the book.

“...Perpetuating a cycle of deception and wrongdoing that can have profound consequences on their lives and the lives of those around them.”

A third finger popped up from his hand.

“Doc. I gotta ask,” he said, stopping for several seconds.

Dr. Adler took this as a segue to give her professional opinion to the unspoken question.

“Is that you?”

“Is that not the definition of me?!”

They both sat in silence.

“If it is, what do you plan on doing about it, Arthur?” Yvonne stated plainly.

“I don’t know, but I feel like I’m at a crossroads here,” he said, standing up from the Remington Chesterfield leather couch, “I’m a part of something bigger, Doc. Then all of us. Knowing what I know in my black heart of hearts, does this mean I’m finally ready for some rehabilitation?”

DING.

Pleasant groaned unsatisfyingly at the sounds of another session having come to an abrupt end.

“This is where we must-”

“-end,” Arthur interrupted. “Yeah, I got it. Thanks, Doc. Till next time.” If I’m even alive FOR a “next time”!   

☭

On The Outskirts of The Vale of Glamorgan- Penarth, Wales (03.20.2024)

The church graveyard had lain overgrown and neglected. Tombstones leaned at odd angles, their inscriptions weathered and illegible. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying echoes of the past and the voices of the departed.

There was a sense of reverence and awe for the history and memories that lingered within the walls of the church despite its decay and neglect. The church's haunting beauty was a testament to the passage of time and humankind's resilience.

In the fading light of day, Arthur Pleasant approached the abandoned church. Its memories lingered, even for an entity like him who had never once set foot there. A ghostly presence stirred inside his mind; this was a stark reminder of the fragility of human endeavor. How appropriate.  Once he stepped inside the old, decrepit, abandoned church, he could feel a spooky reminder of its former glory. An array of necromantic, unidentified noises called out into the musty air in low enough doses of halcyon-esque whispers and curious crepitations. Once a place of worship and solace for the mindless sheep, it now stood in silent disrepair, its walls crumbling and its windows shattered. Nature had reclaimed the church, with vines creeping up the weathered stone facade and weeds overtaking the once-manicured garden.

Heavy wooden doors creaked ominously from the wind pushing against the church–the day itself a dismal concoction of strong gusts of wind and perpetual rain– as if warning us all to turn back. The air was musty and thick with the scent of decay. The pews were rotting, their once plush cushions now ruined with mold. Dust motes danced in the dim light that filtered through the broken stained glass windows, casting eerie patterns on the cracked marble floor.

The altar, once a focal point of reverence and devotion, stood desecrated and abandoned. The ornate carvings were chipped and faded, and the golden candlesticks had lain tarnished and forgotten. A sense of sadness and loss hung heavy in the air, a palpable reminder of the faith that had once filled these sacred walls.

The choir loft, where the voices of the God-fearing congregation had once lifted in song, saw its wooden benches splintered and collapsed. Hymnals scattered and torn. The organ, a majestic instrument that had once filled the church with music, sat silent and broken, its keys dusty and its pipes rusted.

Arthur looked ahead to the confessional, specifically at its beautiful handcrafted markings along the dark brown, splintering wood. Once he opened the door, it creaked just as much as the rest of the church did. Upon climbing inside, he knelt down on the cushioned step where countless penitents sought absolution for their sins. He looked ahead at the latticed opening where a priest would normally listen. He tilted his head back with closed eyes and heaved a long sigh.

“I have become lost,” Arthur Pleasant said, hidden in the darkness of a confessional. “No, even that's a lie. I have been lost for a long time now, God.”

“I kneel before you, Father, a tortured man. A broken man. For every day that passes, I succumb to the paralyzing pain of acknowledging my own mediocrity,” Pleasant said, pausing for a teeny, tiny moment.

“It’s… it’s a cancerous feeling. I-I, well, I can feel it within my bones, and I know it’s spreading throughout this war-ravaged body. Every day it’s adding further decay to my soul. I’m sure of it.”

Pleasant tried to muster up some tears, but his ducts had dried up a long time ago.

“I hold no one else responsible for this,” Pleasant said, pausing so he could choose his words as they were meant to be spoken, “For I am a wicked man who has stolen from the poor, lied to the vulnerable, and maimed the innocent. Where others thirst for silence in peace, I self-indulge in the howls of war. An unslakable lust for violence. An insatiable hunger for pain. A perverted perception of gratification over the systematic destruction of all my enemies.”

He stopped.

Another attempt to shed a tear, but to no avail.

“This is who I am.”

☭

“You know, I’ve been in some really bloody fights in my life,” Arthur Pleasant averred calmly.

He knocked back the remainder of a cold one from a pint-sized beer stein. Swallowing with a refreshing sigh as the foamy remnants slid down his throat, he nodded in appreciation of the syrupy, unyielding flavors. There were about a dozen pump clips lined up in front of him, and all of them had black and white ‘Crafty Devil Brewing’ insignias.

Raising his empty glass, he motioned to the bartender for another.

“Same thing, mate?” asked the barman.

“Yessir,” replied Arthur. This is nice. Its label, which read ‘Year of the Devil, Hazy IPA,’ featured an array of different shades of orange. It was a local favorite in Penarth, as everyone inside the pub had a similar-looking can, bottle, or glass collecting condensation in front of them.

Suddenly, the TV broke every thought in his head as a commercial appeared.

A cheer extravasated across the pub. Culture Shock was coming to Cardiff, Wales this year and along with it came WAR GAMES. Clearly, there were fans of professional wrestling all across Penarth and the Crafty Devil Brewing pub served as one of its great watering holes.

Pleasant chuckled under his breath as he twisted his head as far as he could. He took one look at all of the excited Welshmen--each one as excited as the next--bellowing out conversation about who would win WAR GAMES, who would leave Night One as the Universal Champion, and how Jason Snow would look in his first match in years.   Isn’t this adorable? Flicking the twist cap from another ‘Hazy,’ he held his bottle up for a lonesome cheer.

“To the indomitable faithful!”

Drinking it back, he slammed the glass down on the glossy wooden surface of the bar. 

☭

You know, I’ve been thinking about the whole thing between us, and it got me thinking: you are the biggest hypocrite I’ve ever seen. 

Fact is? I don’t need you. Never have. Never will.

If I reached out to you, it would've done me a great disservice, and you'd essentially be using me for a zero-sum game. You would use me to spread your message of credulity and acceptance and all that happy horseshit, and I would use you as a means to an end– to get inside the heads of my enemies.

I may be a lot of things, faith, but a hypocrite? Yeah, that’s not one of them.

You are nothing if not persistent. I will give you that.

But make no mistake about it: I am not a lost soul. For you see, to be a lost soul suggests I actually HAVE a soul.

I assure you, faith. I don’t. Nor do I want one. 

What do you know exactly about the implied deplorableness I’ve been through? That I witnessed my adoptive father beat on my adoptive mom for nights on end under the neverending sun of Barrow, Alaska, and finally just…snapped? 

If that’s what you think you know and wish to inseminate the masses into believing this was the turning point in my childhood, then, as ironic as this sounds, my reliance on you has reached a point of no return.

Call it a crisis of faith, if you will. I don’t care. I know I’m better off knowing you’re there and not needing you than needing you and knowing you’re not there.

You're the equivalent of buying flood insurance for a house in the desert. 

So now that you know where I stand with you? There’s only one thing left to say, my beautiful, darling angel.

Go fuck yourself.

Ever-defiant, I know. It’s who I am, and one day the people will appreciate that. I’m sure of it. 

But I don’t need you more than a healthy, young athlete with no physical limitations needs a colostomy bag.

If I’m going to war, I’m going to war WITHOUT a fork-tongued she-devil in my corner to hold me back like you. Because when it comes right down to it, I have all the family I need—from here to the end of our days. 

I have a great man of even greater prudence–a leader among men–who has been like a father to me in Ivan Stanislav. He sees the potential in me unlike any other, and I refuse to let him down or be misled by the avatar of one of the seven virtues.

There’s a dangerous man who, admittedly, I don’t often see eye-to-eye with as contentious brothers rarely do. His name is Kerry Kuroyama, and he is a man of unmitigated temperance. He is every bit of the Emerald Apex he says he is, and I will equally take a bullet for that man as I would any other comrade in The Red Army.

My little brothers of the MoscowVerse, who have welcomed me with open arms to this incredible comradeship, have a colossal fortitude that knows no bounds. Standing with them only re-establishes why T.R.A. is the greatest bearer of truth and consequence in professional wrestling.

Our Five-Star Champion, who shall remain our Five-Star Champion when he heads into the steel hell that awaits us, has shown great humility, especially with me, despite being an overbearing zealot for the ideologies he has tried to manipulate everyone into believing. He and I shared some quiet words when this team came to fruition, and I will always hold what he said true to my heart.

Of course, there's Maximillian Wilhelm Kael, our Intense Champion. Now here is a man with an unrelenting determination that is matched only by his passion for justice. A true world-eater with an appetite so intense for destruction that he would put any monster pulled from the works of H.P. Lovecraft to shame in a heartbeat.    

Finally, there’s Jonathan, who shall become the PRIME Universal Champion the night before we march to war. He has defied all odds, won the Almasy, and become THE beacon of hope for this entire institution. And without Jonathan? His loving wife, Vickie, stands by all of us. She is a devoted woman with whom anyone could only ever dream of marrying one day.

So you see, Faith? I have no need for you. Or your second cousin, idolatry.

My team marches to war knowing who and what they are...

...and believe it or not, Faith?

So. Do. Fucking. I.