Good.

Vae Victis Locker Room 11/15/2024 ReVival 59

The Emerald Apex and Scott Hunter sit quietly. Hunter has an icepack across the back of his neck. Another is in his hand pressed against his forehead, the Cowboys for Christ had done a number on Scott.

“Hell of a fight, Scott. Ya ain’t got a damn thing ta be mad at!” The voice of a chipper Texan comes from the shower beyond the blue tiled wall. Steam is flowing as the big man tries to use as much hot water as humanly possible.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Hunter mumbles to himself as he starts to blink his way into unconsciousness. Kuroyama slaps Hunter on the shoulder, to keep Hunter from drifting off into the big concussion sleep.

“You gotta stay up, Scott, here, I’ll get something on,” Kuroyama reaches down onto the floor and flicks the television on. He tries to sit Scott up in his chair but Hunter groggily pushes him off.

“I’m fine Ker,”

“HE’S FINE KERRY! Scott just got a lil knock is all. He’ll be right as rain here in a few, ain’t that right, Scott?” The sudsy Behemoth looks concerned over the blue tile wall, Kuroyama looks back at Clay a little wide-eyed, with a headshake. Byrd gives Kerry a nod to let him know he understands the look.

“Scotty! You gotta stay up buddy, come on, we’re gonna sing a song!” The Behemoth bellows, almost bursting into a melody. Scott starts to wobble and the Emerald Apex is quick to catch him. Kerry lightly slaps Hunter on the face, bringing Scott back to the land of the living.

“ Row, row, row your boat!” The Monster’s baritone echoes and Kerry starts humming while Hunter begins mumbling.

“Row, row, row your boat…” Hunter mumbles along as his eyes shift up towards the monitor. Kuroyama begins to give a little sway.

“Row, row, row your boat!” Clay roars in the shower. His head bobbing like an absolute idiot. Byrd’s head twirls around as he spins to make sure he’s scrubbing his back. Scott’s eyes finally begin to focus on the monitor.  ‘ROBERT C. BYRD’ “Row, row, row, your boat…” Hunter says louder as Kuroyama finally lets him go on his own. The strength back in Hunter’s voice gives the Apex a bit of confidence. He watches Hunter give a brief wobble.

“Gently down the stream…” Clay continues swaying along with the tune, he reaches for a bottle of conditioner that clearly says ‘SCOTT’ on it in giant permanent marker. Hunter stumbles but catches himself with his second step. He straightens up and squints harder at the television. Fred Dick’s pixelated pecker is flopping about.

“Clay you’re gonna wanna see this stream…” Byrd is running the conditioner through his long stringy blonde hair, and with Clay’s natural disposition to only listen to half of what Scott says doesn’t notice the change in the lyrics. Kuroyama did though.

“Merrily! Merrily! MERRILY!” The Behemoth’s bellowing is interrupted by Kuroyama.

“Clay, get out here, you’re going to want to see this,” Kuroyama’s tone implies a serious situation and a stark naked, soaking wet Behemoth storms from the shower. His hair slicked back, covered in conditioner. The big man sees Hunter’s upright, and the worst fear dissipates, but Hunter and Kuroyama’s eyes are glued to the screen.

The Behemoth whirls. His eyes take a second to adjust, but he can see it. Plain as day.

His fathers tombstone with a big dumb fuck pissing on it.

—------------------------------------

You wanted my attention, Fred?

You have it.

It’s undivided.

It’s absolute.

I’m sorry I didn’t get to you soon enough. You’ve been screaming for a paddling for a long time, just begging for someone from the Vae Victis tower to descend down and stumble across your stupid ass.

See, I’ve been distracted, Freddy. I’ve been handling my past, handling issues that have been stacking up for the last half decade. Wrongs that needed fixed, a Youngblood that needed inspired, a Hanlon who needed crushed.

I was busy, and you. You don’t know this.

But you inspired me.

You’re the reason I’m here in the first place.

The clown show, all of this nonsense. The bullshit you boys pulled with Kerry back in June.

I remember.

Fred, I’d been on the couch for a year. Quietly putting myself back together. Picking up all the pieces, coming to terms with who, and what I had become. The way my brain had changed with the years of abuse and torture. The paranoia, the monster, the beast in my own mind.

I was happy on the couch.

I was happy in silence.

I was satisfied. I had done my bit, I tried to fight the wrongs of another generation for three years. And I lost that war, Fred. I lost. I was done, it was over for me. I was thinking about giving LT a buzz, seeing if she had a spot in the back for me. You know, hanging out with my boy Wade. Shooting the shit, maybe crushing a few brews during the show. Just doing what your average wrestling security guy would do.

You know, finger fucking my belly button or something.

But I started watching Freddy. And instead of finger fucking my belly button, I started watching a Michael Jordan trash bag stuffed with mashed potatoes walk around that ring. And, ya know, I figured I’d give this lazy fuck a chance.

But you painted your clown makeup on real nice that night. Got that white all ‘round that big empty fucking head of yours, even managed to put the little squeaky nose on. Morphed right into a grade “A” Bozo the clown right before my eyes. And I know Bozo would take offense to that, but fuck Bozo.

Stupid fucking clowns.

The entire bunch of you. Daytona fucking Diamonds, Harley Walker, that dumb son of a bitch STRONK. Wearing a fucking mask, for god knows what reason. Did you think we didn’t realize it was you, Fred? BOY OH BOY, I WONDER WHO THE STAY-PUFT MARSHMALLOW LOOKING FELLER IS.

IT’S A BIG SPOOKY MYSTERY.

I thought Lindsay Troy had hired a second guy who looks like he should be doing his best job at being really shitty at picking up carts at Wal-Mart for a second, but I was mistaken. You can only have one guy who looks like he managed a Sam Goody until 2007 on the roster. Jesus Christ, you’d probably figure out how to fuck that up too.

I bet you got fired from working night shift at a gas station, you fat sloppy fuck.

For fuck sakes Fred, it’s all the stinger pills you can eat, all you had to do was stay awake.

You're more useless than a Redbox at a closed Rite-Aid.

Probably got into a fight with a customer because you were out of quarters and couldn’t figure out how to make change for fifty-seven cents.

And yet here you are.

Alive and well, still kicking. How does that happen? Have you ever read the Darwin awards? I have, Fred. I used to go every year to read about how incredibly stupid people die. You, Fred. Should be somewhere on that website. That’s how incredibly stupid you are. Like, if you were a truck driver hauling gasoline, you’d check to see how much gas you had in the tanker by flicking a Bic. You’d die in a car crash because you were trying to fornicate on the expressway.

You’re impeccably fucking dumb.

And it makes me hate every fucking one of the MANY ounces of you.

—------------------------------------

Parking Lot 11/29/2024 ReVival 60

Byrd’s finger hovers above the screen of his iPhone. He’s scrolled deep through the 82,397 emails in his inbox. The message his finger rests over is titled ‘PLAINVIEW MEMORIAL PA…’ the rest is hidden off the screen. The Behemoth takes a deep breath and looks down at his left hand. Clutched between his index and middle fingers is a Marlboro Red. He twirls the butt with experience between his index finger and thumb, while pulling the half burnt cigarette to his lips and takes a deep pull.

He walks to the back of his truck, and pulls the tailgate down. He sweeps off the dented and scratched surface, and takes a seat. The back of the truck sags under The Behemoth’s bulk, but Clay doesn’t pay attention. He lets his feet rest on the ground and takes another drag. He pulls the pack and the lighter out of his flannel pocket and sets them down beside him.

He looks out across the full parking lot into the California night sky. He muses about his uncle who lives somewhere in the greater Los Angeles metro area. It’d been half a decade since he’d last seen Richard. Another half hit and Clay tosses the butt into the lot. He reaches down into the pack and pulls a second out. He stuffs it into his mouth, and with another spark of the lighter the tar and nicotine are flowing.

The nicotine takes its effect and his head begins to lightly spin, the feeling of the drug taking its hold after such a prolonged absence. A brief high, a bout of lethargy. Smoking a cigarette for the first time in twenty years is like a night of drinking combined with the morning hangover. But it’s all over in seven minutes.

The smoke wafts off the burning cigarette as Clay brings his attention back to the illuminated screen. He presses the message with his thumb and lets it open. He reads the message for the first time in five years.

‘Your father’s headstone has been placed as requested Mr. Byrd. We have provided a photograph as an attachment for your verification. If there are any issues, please let me know, I can be rea…” 

He stops reading the message and his eyes lock onto the screen. He focuses on the manager's email signature, trying to ignore what was below it. The green grass at the top of the photograph is barely visible on the screen.

He picks up the cigarette and takes another big inhale, before setting it back down on the edge of the tailgate. He notices the time in the top right corner of his phone. He’d asked everyone to meet him at 8. And here he was, 8:23 pm. Sitting here, stressing about this.

He slowly lowers the screen and looks at the headstone.

The Behemoth knocks the half smoked cigarette off the tailgate with his foot, and picks the pack of cigarettes up in his hand and immediately squeezes them as hard as he can. He drops his father’s killer to the ground and snaps up his bag. He’s late. He has someone to kill.

—------------------------------------

I want you to understand exactly who I am, Fred.

Sure, I might wander the hallways of PRIME trying to find new ways to ingest 15,000 calories a day. Sure, Cecilworth Farthington and I may sit in his gossip room from time to time now enjoying delectable finger sandwiches, and sure, I may hang out with Scott Hunter.

But Fred, I do those things to keep from doing what my depression tries to tell me is a great idea. I distract myself, because if I don’t, my brain wanders, it dances itself into twisted places. I need the noise because my silence is a warped twisted madman. The paranoia is too much sometimes, I look at Scott and I can’t tell if he’s pretending to laugh at my jokes or not. I see the way Kerry gets when I’m angry. I see the side eye Lindsay gives me when I do something wrong.

Fred, I’m the dog that’s bitten a few people.

I don’t deserve the affection they show me, Fred. I don’t deserve their friendship, their trust. I haven’t earned it, they shouldn’t follow me into whatever mayhem I lead them too. They know they can’t trust me. I’ve betrayed them all, I’ve hurt them all. Everyone in my life that I care about, I have hurt. I have caused pain.

It’s what I do.

It’s who I am.

That’s what I do to the people I love.

I hate you, Fred.

I’ve burnt down people’s lives. I’ve ruined people. I’ve broken them.

What the fuck do you think I’m going to do to you?

—-------------------------------------

The Mojave 12/12/2024 Colossus Eve

The Behemoth sits silently. He’d pulled off somewhere on route 15 between the ditch fields of Nevada and southern California, the celebrations in Los Angeles were too much for him. The descent of wrestling upon the city of Angels had an unexpected effect. Instead of surrounding himself with the cacophony of the mayhem, he’s sought the solitude of the desert silence.

The cool dry air sends a chill through his body as he shuffles a lawn chair closer to the small rock ringed fire that burns at his feet. A pile of foil wrappers sit off to the side of the chair, the wind has slowly scattered them underneath the bed of the truck. The Behemoth is staring at the rope in his hands, the fire and moon provide enough illumination for his task. He pulls a strip of white athletic tape and slowly begins to wrap the loop.

He scratches a small nick from the end of the rope, it’d been thirty years since a Byrd man had been hooked to the rope.

“Wish ya were here ta see this,” Clay mumbles under his frosty breath. The puff of each word reminds Clay of his father. He adjusts his hat and continues the task. Pulling a knife from his boot, he cuts the tape off and gives the loop a good yank.

“No loose fibers, that’s how ya lose an eye,” Byrd muses to himself. Words his father used to say, he flips the pocket knife open in his hands and slowly begins combing the rope. Each loop, slowly and purposefully looked over. Just like his father used to, anything straggling was removed to the base. The first few, Clay takes carefully. The knife feels awkward in his hand.

“Heh, prolly from Coleman,” the tip of the blade picks at a spot of dried blood. The ancient blood is stiff, and Byrd finally flings it across the lip of the fire’s edge. “Bet that fucker had Hepititis.”

It was something his father would mumble from time to time about Steve Coleman, the two had a vicious rope match at the Sportatorium. It’s the only one Clay had been allowed to watch. Coleman was quick, but Big Bob Byrd knew the rope. That’s what the magazine said, anyway. What Clay had seen was his father taking a beating from a maniac, and finally getting the rope around the man’s neck and choking him half to death with it.

“Guess that’s knowin’ the rope,” another soft chuckle, the nostalgia trip is short lived as he makes it to the other loop. He doesn’t want to tape it, make the little porker suffer some rope burn the entire time. But it wouldn’t be right, it all starts equal. Another one of his fathers rules.

Begrudgingly Clay tapes the end of the rope, he’s quicker, more efficient. This is work, this isn’t done with love. It’s done out of necessity. The rest of the world goes to a stone embedded into the ground to talk to their lost relatives. The Monster muses, his fathers real tombstone is in his hands.

The stone was nothing, the true symbol of Robert Byrd’s life; the real memorial is always at his son's side.

The rope.

—-------------------------------------

Your mom should have swallowed you.

I’m serious, Fred.

It would have been a better existence. Just think about it. You go shooting out of your Dad’s dick faster than a speeding bullet, and you go screaming off, racing all the other sperm your father lets loose. It’s over in an instant. You never even have to develop consciousness. You never know what pain is, you never know about suffering. The world’s problems never weigh on your mind.

Well, I mean, that last one doesn’t happen anyway.

But you get the point. Nothing that bad ever really happens. The world’s a better place, Daytona might be a halfway functional human being. STRONK might be clobbering his way through the masses here, purposeful and focused. Not controlled by an absolute dipshit.

Maybe STRONK meets Lindsay Troy, and I get to hang out with STRONK and Scott Hunter. What if they got to be a tag team? Think about how different a world that could have been, Scotty riding around on STRONK’s broad shoulders. Would have brought a tear to my eye. It could have been beautiful, Fred.

Maybe Harley never becomes a raging alcoholic who just gets tortured by your new teenage angst best friend, that little bad ass kid Robbie Williams. I know he’s cool Fred, he probably has a sweet leather jacket you think is totally bad ass, but Rob could be a real wrestler and not just chopping peoples dicks off in a public park. Maybe Anna Daniels doesn’t have to buy all new white foundation and unnaturally colored hair dye so she can get ready to join your little gang of Bozo fuckheads.

Maybe you don’t make me look at my fathers Tombstone for the first time, while I’m soaking wet, stark naked, standing in a locker room with conditioner running down my ass crack because I haven’t had time to rinse it out. Maybe my first memory of that tombstone isn’t watching your pixelated dick piss all over it.

I think the world would have been a lot better place, Fred. That’s all I’m saying. And you wouldn’t have to deal with any pain, or suffering. And there’s going to be a fucking lot of that coming your way. Because, you think we’re gonna be done after this?

Oh no, Freddy. I’m just getting fucking started.

Robbie Williams, Little Orphan Annie Daniels, and Dickhead Daytona Diamonds. What a gang of little fuckheads. See Fred, I’m not going to just destroy you. I’m not just going to run that rope across every part of your skin, and filet you like a fucking fish with it. I’m not just going to smash it off of you, and choke you till you start turning every color of RIA’s gear.

Oh no, that’s not where this stops, Fred.

That’s the start.

See, I’m coming for all the Lil’ Rascals. The entire He-Man Woman Hater Club can walk on out of their little clubhouse anytime they want and I want them to know, I’m not going to be far behind. I’m locked in, I’m focused.

I’m killing the fucking Whoresmen.

Each and every one of you. You’re all responsible. You’re all enablers. You all did this.

One of you pisses, you all piss.

Guilt by association.

And Fred, while you’re sitting over there with your jaw wired shut, and a halo bolted to your fucking head, I’m going to be stomping a fucking hole through each one of your fucking friends. One by fucking one, I’m going to rip all of you apart.

You better start holding hands when  you go to the bathroom, you better start traveling in packs. Look around every corner, start checking under the bed before you go to sleep. I’m done with the games. You want this, Fred? You wanted this for your friends?

Good.

In the meantime.

I’m going to settle for beating the fuck out of you with this rope.