You're Not Me

Being a Farthington has always been an exhausting existence - your every waking moment fodder for some tabloid. Meet a friend, try to date, try to take a teenage risk and there would be someone with a camera ready to document every single moment of it all. Britain had always had this strange dichotomy - as much as they loathed the landed gentry, they loved every in and out of their lives. To be followed like they were a soap opera, new characters being introduced all the time through weddings and births. People hated the ruling classes, yet they’d gobble up all the period dramas about those same types like slop.

They loved their slop.

Cecilworth Farthington was born into this world, it wasn’t a choice, it simply happened due to a situation with the birds and bees that I don’t think I need to explain to an adult audience. From birth, it was baby pictures getting sold to the gossip mags, it was his first day of school getting shown on daytime television because they had five minutes to fill on a Thursday. Every choice that Cecilworth made from day one was analysed and documented to millions of humans around the coasts of Britain, and let me assure you, the British population loves to have their opinions.

Going to America was almost a reprieve, a chance to start something fresh, a chance to get away from the flashing bulbs of those who followed his every move, the microphones hovering above his head when he’d go out in public, the quick snaps of his rather luxurious speedos on any Spanish holiday. It had been quite enough for the young man.

Being kicked out of the family was a blessing. A chance to be a Farthington in his own making, not to fulfill the stereotype placed upon young master Cecilworth by society. A chance to make mistakes, a chance to learn, a chance to build bonds that were not predetermined.

Max Kael was supposed to be one of those bonds.

Max Kael was supposed to be a friend.

One day though, ole Max, he claimed he wasn’t Max, that in fact he was something different, that Max was “dead” and in his place came “The Minister”. The Minster wasn’t Cecilworth’s friend, The Minister wasn’t a man who had spent Christmas with the young impressionable Farthington, The Minister hadn’t bonded with Cecilworth over the functions of an Automated Teller Machine Machine. The Minister hadn’t shown up when Cecilworth had the bizarre idea to throw a Christmas special that harkened back to the days of Bing Crosbie (minus the orange sacks to hide the bruising, that was much more of a Lord Farthington thing).

Imagine you spent a year thinking that you had a close friend, a confidant, someone who knew your darkest secrets, knew your flaws, knew everything that made you you. Someone you trusted to share that part of yourself with. Imagine that you’d never had anything close to that before, that this was the first person you put your faith in to trust and rely on, because you had suffered a world of sharks before, in both countries that you had made home.

Everyone but him wanted something, whether it was to trade off your family name, have access to an endless cash supply, or just because they thought you were good cannon fodder.

Everyone else wanted something.

Max though? Max was different. He seemed like he genuinely was looking for compassion and a companion too.

It’s rare to find someone you truly trust in an industry of snakes, yet for a brief moment, despite all the oddities, that was supposed to be Cecilworth Farthington and Max Kael.

Then one day, Max just steps into a ring and announces he’s not Max Kael anymore. That he’s Max Shell, or Max Best, or The Minister…

You wonder if you’ve done something, you wonder if it’s an evasion tactic. Did you say the wrong thing in a conversation? Is he using these personas to create distance? Are the personas even real?

While you’re trying to make sense of this new world you find yourself in, he tries to murder your other friend on the beaches of Normandy because of something to do with a syphilitic old bald man from the past.

You watch the only two people who have ever made you feel whole, and you see that they wish to end one another. You step in, you stop it. For Cecilworth Farthington, those relationships meant more than even the World Championship he held at the time. It was more important to save lives than cling on to workplace glory.

That hit hard, that would hit anyone hard.

The days after that were exhausting. The weeks after even more so. Cecilworth the peacemaker had failed, Mike Best and Max Kael were due to have a LITERAL DEATH MATCH. Cecilworth stayed away, emotionally broken, wanting no part of it.

Yet, he had to watch, through a heavy heart, through deep concern, he had to watch what would happen between the two people who made him the wrestler he is today. He watched through his hands, petrified, hoping that common sense would prevail.

Then he heard the squelch.

The squelch he had heard a thousand times since that day.

And the eyelids got heavy.

And heavier.

And heavier still.

—

Last thing I remember, I was watching the death of Max Kael. I’ve done it so many times now. I want to believe this man in PRIME has somehow cheated death, that’s what the rest of my compatriots that knew him have done. They’re all willing to believe that the man standing against FLAMBERGE is the very same man I was tag team champions with. Yet, almost every night, with a glass of wine in hand, I’ve watched an IV go right through that man’s skull. I’ve watched him die in the Alcatraz night air, over and over again.

Normally though, I wake up on the small hotel room couch. That’s the typical night routine, a glass of red, a minor mental breakdown, jerked awake in the middle of the night, still on a gray couch, the feed dead for hours, the bulbous glass in hand.

I don’t recall falling asleep in the lobby of the hotel. I definitely don’t recall the hotel lobby playing a feed of Max’s death on an endless loop on a television 100 inches wide in the lobby. I suppose it’s possible, I do get caught up in my own little world sometimes. Did I ask them to do this? Did I think I’d spotted something new that would justify why the man standing across from me at Colossus was indeed the man I thought I knew? Is that what scared everyone away from the lobby? I suppose if I didn’t have the context, I’d be running off to find my room as soon as possible too.

The staff though, surely the staff would still be around? It is dark outside though, I guess maybe it’s a shift change.

Best thing is probably to retire to my room for the night, it seems like I’ve already caused enough trouble. Even at 4K, 100 inches… that IV went right through the skull. In fact, with higher quality, I’m almost certain that I see a bit of brain dangling off the end of the whole thing.

No wonder people went to bed.

—

Weird.

I don’t remember booking a room as big as this. I certainly don’t remember requesting a basket of eggs to be arranged in a centrepiece. Who the hell would ask them to be crafted in the shape of a ukule…

Okay.

Okay.

I’m going to try and stay calm here, but an egg definitely just landed on my skull. I can feel the yolky ooze dripping down the back of my shirt. I know the feeling well, although I haven't experienced it since I tried to boot an invisible man in the bum and that was…

Splat

Fucking hell! That’s a second fucking egg. This is ridiculous. Someone else is clearly here, I’m turning on the lights.

…

I’d be turning on the lights if they worked…

Did I always have a backpack on? It seems more elaborate than the one that usually holds my gear. My bag isn’t normally lit up in neon, nor does it have a nozzle attachment. Was this some kid’s prank when I was out cold in the lobby?

“Hello Cecilworth, you crumb”

There’s definitely someone else in this room. Rooms don’t typically throw eggs at you and call you a crumb all by themselves.

Ah, well, that’s unusual. I don’t think I’ve seen a ten foot tall Max Shell strumming his yolkulele in front of me before.

Wait, did I just say ten foot tall?

What the fuck is happening?

“Us Maxs, we got together and decided since no one else was going to take on our very generous offer to end you, we’d take matters into our own hands.”

I’m starting to think this isn’t my hotel room. What with the giant ghostly apparition in front of me… but also the Octane replicas that are adorning the shelves of the room… also, is that Bobby having a nap in the corner or… no… no… I think it’s just a clump of bed sheets and…

“You’re a fast one, aren’t you”

I noticed additional eggs flying towards my beautiful skull but I managed to get out of the way just in time. The giant figure of Max Shell remained hovering above the central egg basket of the room, every strum of his instrument firing more eggs in my direction. Sure I could dodge, but I was running out of stamina and I wasn’t sure how this game was going to go on for.

Then, as if my luck was in, I saw the beautiful yellow yolkulele fall out of Shell’s hands. It stops the egg summoning ritual for a few moments, giving me a chance to breathe. Maybe it was a good time to work out what the hell this backpack was all about.

Oh sweet, I think I found the on switch and… welp, I guess the nozzle has a suck function and I don’t mean it tuned people directly into a Pay Per View from the Sphere.

Hey-o.

I guess maybe I should worry less about perfect pieces of satire and more about how this backpack relates to the ten foot monster trying to kill me with eggs. Maybe now it’s on if I point it in his general direction while he’s still scrambling for his instrument.

That’s doing the job. It appears to be sucking him in like an unwelcome fart, which that pile of rags in the corner may already be doing.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen!”

The screeching of Max Shell is all I can hear as this little device pulls more and more of him in. He tries to throw a few more eggs in my direction but I’m alert enough now and there’s no more yolky excess to run through my body. With every egg, there’s more desperate screeches, the beast getting absorbed into the nozzle.

Suddenly, there’s silence. There’s no more eggs, no more Shell, no more yolkulele. The light on my backpack turns green and suddenly the room returns back to its original form - a deluxe twin with partial city views.

Is this my room?

Best try and rest for a while and…

—

“BRO, YOU GOTTA SEE THIS SHIT, PEOPLE ARE WILDING OUT”

I thought I’d started sleeping in my room, yet now I seem to be in the middle of a frat party mosh pit and let me assure you, the smells certainly match.

Wait, we’re all in cups, am I part of some kind of human game of Beer Pong?

“LET’S FUCKING GOOOOOO”

Yup, that’s definitely a giant ping pong ball that’s murdering every person it lands upon.

Are these people real? Is this popped-collar fuck adding to a literal murder tally?

“S’up C-Money?”

As I look up, I see the creature that I’ve had the unfortunate pleasure of knowing as Max Best stand at the edge of this giant construction of red cups and blue table and here I am, somehow at the centre of it all.

Swoosh

That one almost took my head off. Before I can process the fact that I managed to somehow survive, the creature is already giving himself a high five as the ball lands in a cup near mine. He lifts it up and drinks it in, consuming the poor creature that was part of the contents.

I heard she was the one, I guess not.

“Kind of lonely to have a one man game of beer pong, no?”

Somehow, I managed to form a coherent statement, despite my deep rooted concern of being on the precipice of losing my very skull.

“Bro, it’s the only way to do it. I’m having the time of my life!”

As I look at the twenty foot, living, breathing popped collar, I believe it. The smile is a mile wide, but that may just be due to the body proportions we’re dealing with at the moment. I see his index finger and thumb lining up his next shot and it very much feels it’s in my direction. Thankfully, at the same time, I hear my backpack beeping once more, suddenly turning green.

Just as Max Best tries to flick his balls in my direction, the table starts to rumble, and cup upon cup falls upon his footsie wootsies. As he leaps up and down in pain like a Hanna-Barbera cartoon, I choose my moment and switch on the nozzle of the spirits that I’ve been provided.

The collar is the first part of Best to catch. Pink and popped, it was an obvious target.

Slowly the rest of him gets consumed.

Then the backpack goes back to red and I collapse asleep.

—

Oh god, I know this smell.

The stale cigars. The whiskey. The aroma of many fancy leather bound books.

This is my father’s study.

How the hell did they manage to get my father’s study into the hotel? I mean I know some of these classy hotels go the extra mile to make their clients feel welcome, but this couldn’t be further from the truth.

“I was waiting for you, my boy!”

Well something is definitely wrong, that miserable prick never waited for me for anything in my entire life. Still, I guess I have to face up to the music. I steady myself as I turned to face where the voice came from.

The surprising thing this time, there’s no grotesque creature that’s trying to immediately murder me as if I just stepped into a 1992 John Ritter movie. No, it’s just… my dad.

But he died.

He died from cum.

Long story, don’t want to revisit it right now.

I steady my nerves, I need to stand my ground here.

“Hello dear father, what brings you to this neck of the woods?”

There’s a terrifying laughing noise that follows, like someone had put the gain of a sound mixer to maximum levels and then added reverb for fun.

“I thought that’d be obvious by now. I’m here for the same reason as the other Maximuses that you’ve had dispatched your way. I’m here to bring your end.”

I quickly scan around the room, the backpack is still flashing red, and there doesn’t seem to be any objects that are an immediate risk to my very wellbeing. This situation was a bit more puzzling to what I’d come through. Lord Farthington could sense that too.

“Oh, don’t worry lil Cecil, I’m not a monster. I don’t have any oversized weapons to bring you down. I don’t have to. You’re going to do it for me. You know me boy, I’ve never got my own hands dirty.”

I had to chuckle as I responded to my father. “And how exactly is that going to happen, oh great and powerful Lord Farthington?”

I was expecting at least a plant pot to be thrown at my head for that one. Instead, I just heard the eerie chuckle once more.

“Cecilworth - look at you. So proud. So certain of himself and his talents. You really are a Farthington. Yet, like many of my family line, you’re also pig ignorant. This little match of yours, this match with your “friend”... 

The room started feeling a lot icier, and I really felt the finger quotes that came my way.

“Was it worth it, my boy? Was it worth losing every friend you’d made? Was it worth seeing their suffering? You arrogant brat, you go out in front of cameras and try to pretend that you’re a different kind of Farthington, but you’re the same as all of us"

I couldn’t control myself, my breathing became heavy, my fists curled up, I could hear my heart racing. Next thing I knew, I was yelling at the figure, even if I had the sense it was exactly what they wanted to hear.

“YOU’RE NOT ME!”

That’s when the laughing got deeper, it was shattering glass, the walls of the room started collapsing as the figure that was once my departed father grew and shifted. Are shadow men supposed to start growing spider legs? He’s definitely becoming part spider. Also, he has several visible STDs.

Hang on, is his head now inside of the Tower of Babel? That doesn’t seem necessary.

Also the cowboy hat at the top that says “vroom” just feels like it's rubbing salt into the wounds more than anything.

“I AM A SHADOW, THE TRUE SELF…”

I’m sure this giant pazuzu-like winged beast probably had a lot to say about the nature of humanity but I opted to switch the nozzle on immediately instead.

“NO! STOP! FACE ME! DON’T BE A COWARD!”

The screeching protestations of the creature who claimed to be my father aren’t really all that compelling to me. He must be consumed, sucked in and rid of, like all of the others. If he was truly my father, he’d know how cut throat Farthingtons are always supposed to be.

I could feel him being sucked inside, his pain and agony. A man expecting a great battle and instead finding himself as dust-fodder.

A fitting end to a terrible man.

An end he deserved.

—

“Sir, sorry for the wait, your room is ready now”

Cecilworth Farthington was sound asleep in the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel. A lil treat he had booked himself before he had to step into a world he didn’t quite understand at Colossus. He thought the time away from the grappling world would help him to rest and give him the right frame of mind.

Facing the supposed reanimated corpse of your best friend though, that’s a heavy weight to bear.

So as he arrived early at the lobby, he’d gone out cold in a comfy recliner.

Cecilworth was shaken awake by the bellhop that had his case ready. As he stirred awake, he looked the man directly in the eyes, as if he’d just gone through one of the world’s most intense traumas.

“Mr. Farthington, are you feeling okay?”

Cecilworth gave a reassuring nod to the young lad, “Better than I’ve been in a long time. Sometimes we all need a rest, eh? Helps you work out a few things that have been on your mind."

Not entirely sure what the wrestler meant, the bellhop smiled and gestured Cecilworth towards the elevators.

—

Mr. Kael, I won’t call you Max, that doesn’t feel right, you’re not him. You never will be him.

I must congratulate you. I am after all nothing more than a sporting man.

Over the last year, you’ve taken everything from me. You’ve removed every support structure. If anything could make me feel safe and secure about myself in this world, there you were to make sure that my heart was ripped afresh every single time.

I hid. I tried to let it ride out. I assumed you’d expose yourself eventually.

Yet, here we are. Exactly where you want us to be. A date in LA, a date at Colossus. The eyeballs of the world watching us all.

I just hope you know what you’re getting. See, I had some time recently to rest, to relax, to rejuvenate and I think it’s given me something of a game plan.

I think it’s time to take you apart, personality by personality, to see what lies under the hood.

See, Mr. Kael, if you truly had my father inside of you, you'd know one thing for sure. I am resilient. I do not say die. When I am roused, oh boy, I will cut through everything, every being, every essence, I'll do it with glee.

You get what you want at Colossus.

They say that life is full of surprises.

The biggest surprise of all?

It’s me.