Future Tripping

“So you’re telling me ya don’t believe anymore?  I find that hard to swallow, man, honest.”

The way Cliff talks is hard to manage for some people, but Sage never found issue with it.  Maybe it’s just that he’s often so intoxicated that his boyfriend’s strained neck vein bark, like Clancy Brown doing an impression of Henry Rollins, never really made much difference to him.  Truth is, this last little bit, it was one of the things he missed the most.  Call it aging, call it exposure to other cultures, call it what you will–but Pontiff was feeling chafed by talk of aggressions and ‘I feel’ statements.  The calling cards of his hippie culture’s way of communicating had begun to feel like constraints to him, and Cliff’s matter-of-fact, zero bullshit directness was like a soothing balm.

Presently, they are sitting on a terrace near Castelo, in the rental that they had found that gave them ample respite from the hustle and bustle.  This allowed Cliff to recharge his social battery, because if he’s not in a mosh pit or fighting the police, he’s a bit anxious around people.  It also gave them both a beautiful view to enjoy with excellent sunsets–and kept their annoying the neighbors with energetic love making to a minimum.

“It’s not that I don’t believe, babe.  It’s that I don’t believe that everyone can take the help–or that they deserve it, either.”

“Ya don;t think that’s a harsh value judgment, though?”  Cliff is regarding his partner with a mild skepticism, polishing a drink of the favored tipple of Portugal, Super Bock.  Sage, for his part, is holding in an absolutely heroic lungful of dab smoke, which he releases without even a single hack before shrugging.

“Let me ask you something.  What do you think of someone who chose to become a cop after all of the defund movements and militarization over the last decade?”

“Swine, fuck ‘em.”

“Value judgment.”  Cliff cracks a grin at this, showing off his teeth under his thick Frye mustache.

“Fair.  So what leads you to this?  I mean, not for nothin’, but things have been going pretty well, yah?”

“Since you got here?  They’ve been great.  I’ve just come to accept some things.  Call it…perspective, I guess.  I lived with so much ego in my early career, it’s been nice to shed some of it and focus more on what I actually want, what actually feeds me.”

“You’re always on about burning your ego away, y’know that?”

“C’mon Pike, you know you would enjoy it.  If you hadn’t bailed on that Ayahuasca experience you’d see exactly what I’m talking about.”  At this, Cliff scoffs, smirking.

“Y’made it sound like it was gonna be at an actual site, with an actual shaman, not in a box ambulance owned by a dude named Leander that he had dubbed ‘The Dabulance’.  I’ll do just about anything if you’re involved, but that shit had bad trip written all over it!”  At this, they both laugh at the shared memory, even The Bodhisattva seemingly willing to accept the inherent humor in such a tableau.  He fires up the blowtorch, preheating the glass banger.

“Leander is a good dude, but I’ll cop to it, I may have oversold his ability to be a steward for ego death.  Next time we’ll go to South America.”  Cliff chuckles, taking another swig.

“So what actually feeds you, then?”

“Hm?”

“Y’said you wanted to focus on what actually feeds you.  I know what that means outside the ring, guess I’m just trying to get the context for what that means in the world of bustin’ folks up on a professional level.”  This gives Sage a moment of pause, and he elects to fill that moment with gathering up a mail of wax and getting another deep dab in.  On the exhale, he looks off to the horizon, to the sun dipping behind buildings on a ridge.  He looks content, not just high, and the distinction is pretty significant.

“Something happened in that match, Cliff.  A shift in my perceptions, a shift in priority. I won, and I…I didn't have to make myself do it, didn't have to ascribe something large to it, didn't have to assign it some greater cosmic significance to do it.  I just saw someone across from me, found them distasteful, and beat them.  I just seemed to come to this realization, all at once.”

“That yer better’n him?”

“Actually, yeah.”

“Be serious, Sage.”

“I am!  Like…okay, so let me let you in on the process.”  He stands slightly, turning his chair to more easily face his partner.  He holds both hands up, palms out.  “This is me, on the left.  This is my opponent, on the right.  Now, every fucking opponent I’ve ever faced is just there.  They have their own traumas and motivations and things that put them in fight mode, but it’s all personal.  All focused on themselves and the fight in front of them.  Me?”  He makes the fingers of his left hand spread, waving them hypnotically.  “I have always had to be this.  Always had to find a reason to save them, in a way.  To show them enlightenment and cleanse their soul.”

“And now y’dont need to.”  With this, The Bodhisattva drops his hands, his shoulders relaxing, that million dollar smile beaming out behind his sunshine dreadlocks.

“Honestly?  I'm questioning if I ever had to.  If I ever needed it.  Because as soon as I just let all of that go, I realized how hard it was weighing me down.  It’s good enough to just be better.  It’s good enough to just outfight the other person.  It’s good enough to just want the win more.”  Cliff smiles at this, scratching the stubble on his substantial chin.

“So alla that talk about Skanda and Shaivism?  What’s that?”

“Belief gets me there.  I don’t have to make anyone else believe.  They can just feel the full might of what I bring.  And they can realize that they underestimated me to a serious degree, because they all do, in some form or another.  You do it too, don’t think I haven't noticed you psyching yourself up before you commit to an old fashioned street fight.  Like when you waded into that crowd of Proud Boys in Minnesota.”

“They fucked around.”

“They found out.  But…I am worried.  Nervous, I guess.”  This causes Cliff’s smile to drop, and he raps on the table with authority.

“What’s with you lately, Pontiff?  You’re coming off a win,. You’ve realized the newfound joys of just stomping a fool out, why are you stressing over this shit?  Ain’t that what your kind of people call ‘future tripping’?”

“Ha ha, asshole.  Though…you aren’t wrong.  I dunno.  Big show.  Big title match.  Bigger stakes.”

“And I’m guessin’ treating this like any other match ain't in the cards, eh?”  At this, Sage shakes his head, lost in his thoughts.  Cliff throws a sensitive, even tender look at the man who has dragged him to Europe out of love–one would think such tenderness seems out of place on the iron metalhead, but it actually softens his whole countenance.  When he speaks again, it’s with a softer tone.  “How long has it been since you talked to Paxton?”

“Too long.  He’s got his own things he’s dealing with.  Why do you ask?”

“Look, I can make you feel good about you.  I can psyche you up and support you.  But I can’t understand you, get me?  The stakes, the size of the show…I ain’t got the context.  And he does.  So go talk to your other boyfriend about it, eh?  Maybe he’ll be able to shake you loose from your fear.”  At the ‘other boyfriend’ crack, Sage throws his head back, laughing.  Cliff joins, and leans back, stretching out his elevator cable arms.  Pontiff stands and walks over, giving him a gentle kiss.

“And to think people are actually afraid of such a talented comedian.”  He grabs his phone and stands straight, beginning to walk inside.  Turning, he winks at his man.

“Love you, meathead.”

“Love you too, flower power.”

—

Ring Ring.  Ring Ring. Ring Ring.  Bedoop.

“Th’ fuck is going on?” 

The cursing and somewhat barked nature of the greeting would probably make anyone else wonder what they had done wrong, but to Sage, it’s like a hug.  The Bodhisattva smiles, absently stroking his growing beard, eyes squinting into the sunset.

“Pax.  Buddy.”

“My man. Been a minute. What’s up?”

“Honestly?  Stressing out about this match.  Last time I was up for this title it was against some pissed off swampbilly who laid me out for a few weeks…”

Paxton laughs, and when he does Sage can see his lip is a little more bruised than usual. “That was a good time, wasn’t it? Well you’re gonna make this one count, an’ against that piece’a shit Diamonds t’boot. He’s hit ya with whiskey, he’s choked me…this guy’s written ‘bout a thousand checks that you’re ‘bout to cash in. An’ a few hours later I’m’a carve up Freddie boy until he looks like a scored pig.”

“Yeah?”  Sage smirks, pondering this.  He knows the threat isn’t an idle one, in fact far from it–but he never knows if he’s supposed to take the text of what he’s saying as gospel or not.  “Want a little backup?”

“Believe me, I got everythin’ handled here. But I can head back t’Europe if ya need a hand with whatever you’re goin’ through. If I got to beat the confidence inta ya, I’ll do it. You took down a big challenge, an’ you’ll do the same against Daytona.”

“Nah, nah, I got Cliff with me, we’ve been…”  Sage pauses at this, trying to find the proper way to put things.  “Shit has actually been pretty good.  But you know how it is–good times can make you feel a little…soft.  Less sharp than you want to be.  I'm trying to figure out how to thread the needle.”

“Yeah I felt that. Sometimes ya feel like ya gotta be battle tested before your big match – like ya need t’feel some big pain or trauma to get ya ready. I think that’s bullshit. Ya can win this match even if ya spend every day happier’n a rooster in the hen house. ‘Specially ya, Sage. Know why?”

“Why?”

“You’re the most collected person I’ve ever known. Even when ya got conflicts, ya don’t let ‘em get past your ears. That’s one’a the things I admire ‘bout ya.”  This gives Pontiff pause, and his eyes widen ever so slightly out of their marijuana haze.  For all their mutual faults, and those number high, Sage has always felt an admiration towards this man from the bayou, for his determination and his tenacity and the hidden tenderness that he knew he possessed.  To hear that such a man held some level of admiration for him was a genuine shock.

“Paxton, that means a lot to me.  I don’t know if you know this, but sometimes I struggle with feeling seen, if that makes sense.  I know people see me, but they see all these trappings.  The fashion, the vibes, the ink, they think they understand all that I’m about but…all this is bullshit.  It’s physical form, physical form means so little.  But you don’t pass that value judgement, you see me for who I am, and being real with you, there’s a slime number of people on this plane of existence that I get that from.”  He smiles.  “So thank you.”

“It ain’t nothin’. ‘Sides, I should be the one thankin’ ya. Jus’ like ya, I been judged by everybody. So much that I believed all the worst things ‘bout myself. But ya saw somethin’ in me an’ let me believe others could too. Speakin’ of, remind me t’tell ya ‘bout the bullshit that went on this week with Julie when we meet up in Lisbon.”

“Oh, I can’t wait.”  And the tone in his voice is legitimate–he actually can’t, even if the news isn’t great it’ll still be coming from his closest friend, as improbable as that likely seemed on paper.  He looks to the distance.  “You really think I have what it takes?”

“Not a doubt in my mind.” 

“‘Champion’ isn’t something I’d ever thought I’d be, I guess.  You know I originally took this gig on a lark?  Make a few bucks doing the only thing I really felt good at, maybe enough to get a ticket out to an Ashram, live my days meditating and washing pots until the itch got too bad and I had to bug out to the next thing.  I didnt want for riches.  Didnt want for fame, not really.  I wanted to expand the mass consciousness, raise our vibrations to a healthier place, but…maybe it’s age.  Maybe it’s just that I’ve seen enough of the world to realize that people can’t be forced into expanding their minds to a place of better psychic health.”  He pulls a joint from the extra dimensional rift behind his ear–a realm where there is always a raw cone packed tight with the stickiest of the icky–and idly chiefs it up, taking a big lungful before exhaling and continuing his thought.  “Now I’ve got stuff to build for.  Now I’ve got stakes.  You fought me when I didn't have any. “

“I’m a selfish asshole, so I’m glad ya didn’t back then, an’ I’m glad ya do now. Ya know, Freddie and Daytona an’ the rest a’them assholes don’t do a lot right, but one thing they got right is findin’ people to help out in this weird fuckin’ job we got. Luckily, they ain’t the only ones who got friends.”

“The evil of the world doesn’t stand a chance, Pax.  Not while people like you and me have each other’s back.”  The Bodhisattva places his hand over his heart.  “Tell you what–after I beat some enlightenment into this guy, wanna be my first title defense?”

“Why does it feel like ya jus’ tol’ me you’re gonna name your first kid after me?” Paxton chuckles, holding his ribs as he does so. “It’d be an honor. Now go spend some time with your man an’ let’s both get a win against the Whoresmen.”

Bedoop.

—

I don’t know that you fully grasp what you’re facing, and that’s fine.  That’s good, actually.  You should enjoy yourself, enjoy your life with that title, while you still have the life to enjoy it.  I’ve found myself wondering if that’s all you are capable of.  Far be it from me to judge, mind you.  I am a being who enjoys, with gusto, with my whole heart and my entire soul.  But there’s a difference between passion and consumption, right?  The first is tied to so many things, a seed that grows its roots out to every part of the human condition.  Love, lust, rage, pain, fucking, violence–passion is foundational to the human condition.  Consumption is a gluttonous act, physically and spiritually.  It destroys.  It pillages and drains and leaves nothing but the same hunger in its place.  Are you proud of being that sort of man?  I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the mirror.  But guys like you, they don’t…think about it.  About any of it.  I know you’ll hear what I’m saying, man.  And I know you’ll probably pantomime jacking off before you lose yourself in a pile of whatever vice you’re feeding, but…Daytona.  Look at me.  Look in my eyes.  Give me thirty seconds, alright?  Give me thirty seconds before all my words whistle through your skull and you forget that I ever said them.  You are a sick dog who will be put down.  You hear me?  You deserve nothing of what you have.  You build nothing.  You help nothing.  All your success and riches–how have you made the world a better place?  How have you helped the downtrodden or unfortunate?  You will be put down.  Not by me, not by Paxton, not by any wrestler or person you’ve cheated.  But the world will no longer suffer your presence.  May not be tomorrow, may not be a year from now, but you will have nothing.  Nothing.  And when that day comes, you will be placed at a forked path.  Do you close your eyes one last time and let your cancerous existence fade into distant memory?  Or do you right your numerous wrongs?  I hope it’s the former.  That makes me a worse person than I’d like to be, Daytona.  I want to tell you that through our combat, through our shedding of blood, that we’ll understand one another and that I’ll actually be able to help you.  But the more and more I see of your kind, of people like you, I realize that enlightenment is not fated for all of us.  That expansion of consciousness is not in the cards for every soul.  Some people just need to get their fucking head smashed.  People like you.  I have embraced my path of war, the celestial blood of Skanda courses through my veins.  Even beings as benevolent as the Devas and Devis knew that sometimes we must cleanse with fire and axe, we must bury spears into the hearts of beings who act as if they have none.  And I know this means very little to you–I can hear your eyes rolling in the future, a peculiar precognition.  Because you don’t know what you’re dealing with.  And you don’t want to know.  Because if you possessed that curiosity and insight then…well, you’d be so much more.  I pity how stuck you are in your loop of consumption and destruction.  Your soul needs to be stripped to the bare wood.  And there was a time when I would have taken that job on myself.  Beat you to nothing.  Scatter your blood on the canvas in the pattern of the sacred mandalas, paint sacred geometry with it.  I’d make malas with your teeth, I’d beat the rhythm of the Dharma drum on your ribs until they were paste.  I’d draw a third eye on your forehead and hammer that spot until I revealed it to the world.  My knuckles would be worn to bone but I’d know, more surely than I know my open name, that I saved your soul.  That I brought you to the brink of something definitive, that I’d snuffed the evil in you, that I’d shown you the golden horizons of true belonging and harmony. But those were the follies of a younger man.  I’m living smarter now.  And part of that intelligence is realizing that I don’t need to do all that.  I can just…beat you.  I can just hurt you, really fucking bad, and take that belt and all your prestige from you.  Because I don’t need to put you down.  No one else needs to.  You’ll do a fine job of that yourself. And once you have nothing and the carrion birds have begun to smell the stink of you? Then you’ll be ready for my lesson.  Namaste.