#BenFree: The Manhunt Campaign

Tokyo, Japan - Tokyo Dome Hotel - Recently

Confusion settled in, but he was entertained.

“Heh, Timmy? For real?” Ben enthusiastically questioned while fiddling through a small backpack. “What in the world is wrong with this guy, hm?” Ben ponders, grinning, as he pulls a pen from the bag.

He awoke not long ago so that explains the pitiful bed head, pajama pants, and yesterday’s polo. Ben’s balding and he’s not thrilled about it. There’s no plan to compete against Coral Avalon for best forehead, but Ben’s a close second. His hair is receding, but in the formation of what used to be a widow’s peak that once coiled into a Superman curl. If one were to wager a guess? He’ll have one of those horseshoe dealies for a hairdo, but the cursed version with a little lonely muff island anchored on the center of the dome.

Bloodshot eyes? Yes. Poorly maintained facial hair that looks more like God smote Ben with an epidermis ripe for awkward hair growth? 100% check. A deep and mucus filled cough that’s the after effect of recently power-tugging a 200 mg sativa disposable vape in the hotel bathroom? Yessir. Ben swigs complimentary hot tea and looks down at a laptop screen.

“Timmy the IT Technician, heh. I thought we fired him?” He continues with confusion. “That gooberhead’s gettin’ the fear’a’God put into him. I'm tired of these no good sons’a’boogers tryna’ tarnish our good name. Heh, nah, it's not that big’a’deal,” he brushes it all off for the moment while sipping more tea.

Suddenly Jesus takes the wheel as Ben begins to regurgitate thoughts (that should be just that: thoughts), but his mouth moves; then a voice happens. There’s a reason for Ben’s early bird inebriated warbling. He is higher than Creed looking for a place where blind men see. That’s pretty high considering the streets are golden.

“Timmy..Timmy..Timmy, do not test my ability to catch a body outside,” Ben’s nonchalance carries an uncomfortable vibe. “I think that I want to drag your soul around for a little bit, Timothy,” he looks back at the laptop with his green eyes wide and full of fire, “I wanna bounce it off the stars like a pinball, take it to a Nickleback concert, and maybe even take it to Cedar Point so that it can ride solo on the Top Thrill Dragster. Isn't that what frienemies are for? Wow, I wanna hurt you real bad, Timmy; I wanna kick that butt. I wanna tie ya’up a bit. Can I do that to ya? Can I slowly interlace your limbs, and listen to the music that your body makes when it’s forced to do what it shouldn’t? Will you be my balloon animal? Squeaky-squeaky, Timster. Squeaky…squeaky…squeaky…”

There’s youthful laughter, and then a collage of enthusiastic incoherence. Ben is on a video call with his daughters before they go to bed; hence the laptop. Macey is the big sister at nine years old, and she has the world in the palm of her hands. Her brown eyes glow, and her beautiful brown hair rests just above the shoulders. She will argue that her hair is strawberry blonde, and she’s prepared to die on that hill. Macey is the family Princess but the older she gets then the more angst that fills her soul.

Zoe is the younger sister, the middle sibling, and she deserves her own paragraph. She’s Ben’s mini-me albeit he won’t own that insinuation. Zoe is six years old with a charming rambunctious energy, curly blonde hair, and emerald green eyes. Ben was told he looked like Opie Taylor, from the Andy Griffith Show, when he was a little boy. Zoe is no different, but don’t tell her that she looks like Opie because she’ll whack the woke right out of you. Calling her that offends her for undisclosed reasons. She’s a firecracker.

“Was that too much?” Ben’s concern is warranted by the odd verbiage used in his random display of begrudging monologue. It’s fair to ask his daughters for their opinion.

“No,” Zoe immediately replies and she laughs with every word, “but, you said butt.” Zoe’s laugh is unique, and it’s often contagious. Zoe laughs at all the trigger words: butt, pee, poop, fart, etc. Zoe laughs at goofy faces, when people wiggle their booties, when someone farts at inappropriate times, and - you get the point: she’s a child. However, her laugh always seems to be sprinkled with confusion, as if she doesn’t understand the context, but she just wants to laugh anyway.

Then there’s Macey, who is noticeably concerned. She disappointingly side-eyes her cackling sibling, leisurely looks at her dad, and then slowly tilts her head downward while releasing a sigh that sounds like a freshly popped bicycle tire.

“You're so weird,” Macey says about her supporting cast, post sigh.

“I once spoke so much during the apex of a most heated battle,” Ben carried on, “that Calamity Voss, the Admiral of the Ironhyde Navy, decided that jumping off the unforgiving cliff of Moyntaggert’s Point was more apropos than fighting me mano-y-mano. He dove right off! I've never defenestrated someone via tête-à-tête, but that's a freakin’ big dot on the lifetime bingo card. Cha-ching,” he raises his hand in the air and summons his inner Chris Farley as Todd O’Connor (the ‘Da Bears’ skit, for those who are unsure) when imitating the sound of a cash register.

Both daughters, much like everyone else, have no idea what their dad just said. Ben Lynch knows and that’s all that matters.

“So, yea…” He smiles, and then leans in to whisper. “Who's ready to play Rings and Wrestlers?” He didn’t whisper that question. Ben’s just a thespian and can’t do anything without the imaginative notion that his life is being televised.

“I am!” The girls shout while raising their arms high and wildly waving their hands. Ben’s blessed.

“Great! Ok, so where were we?” His uncertainty leads to clicking and glaring at the laptop. His eyebrows raise, his reddened eyes widen, and he smirks.

“Ah! Yes…” He rubs his hands together. “You have entered PRIMA Citadel. One half of your journey is complete. You've travelled for three days to get here. The mission is to capture the great Championship of PRIMA, which is currently being guarded by The Crimson Legion under the despotic guidance of an enormous booger-faced ogre named Igor Valsinats.”

“Boogers!” Zoe snort-laughs and falls back on the couch.

“Night one,” Ben continues in his best Promoter-Master voice, “you met the governing body of Sustania, the land of sustenance. Kraut Dogson, Pine-El Dolekins, and their three headed hound of all that is consumable: THE HOLZERHOUND. You two faced everything this great region threw at you! Even the mythical HOLZERHOUND was no match for the might of Zoe…erm…Zoe Big Muscle Butt.”

Zoe laughs so hard that no sound comes out. She slaps her sister on the thigh, and then slowly falls backward.

“Muscle Butt,” she’s able to choke out in laughter before falling comatose to hysteria.

“Night two!” Ben exclaims. “Sustania is now behind the Daughters of Destiny and will support them on their mission to acquire the legendary Championship of PRIMA. Thereafter you painstakingly fought through the damp and sticky alleys of Pastelvania. Every magnificent mustache was not unscathed and eliminated via the Blade of Destiny, which is a finishing maneuver you learned from the great Mage Philip Norelco. NIHILIST FLAMBINO’s ability to snatch a clavicle faster than Barry Allen on a coke run was no match for Madame Gloria! She slayed the half komodo dragon-half Parisian vagabond by heinously pushing him into a 500 degree vat of premium Pastelvania clarified and rendered Rezinian bone marrow to finish the ‘First to Die in a Vat of Rezinian Marrow Glue Loses’ match.”

“Um, excuse me,” Macey’s abruptness is highlighted with her passive aggressive tone, “That’s Madame Gloria, Slayer of Pastelvanian Waste, and Rogue Knight of a Failing God.”

Ben smirks, nods, and moves his head to the beat of his own drum.

“Whatever you say, sister,” he responds. The drum stops, his brow furrows, he shakes his head quickly, and then wipes his eyes. “Rogue Knight of a…” he’s suddenly flabbergasted with what his daughter said. He tilts his head, and studies his first born through a lens of vast concern. “Who even are you right now?” [REDACTED] Elementary School, Ohio, Last Week “The reason that I called you in is because we’ve had some complaints about Macey,” is what Mrs. Clemons tells Ben and Claire Lynch. Lisa Clemons, née Carbonini, Principal of the school, is an old acquaintance of Ben Lynch from further down the timeline. Way back when Ben kept JNCO’s stock value on the rise while representing the message of a slimy alternative.

Lisa, a beautiful Italian woman, was a supporting character during one of Ben’s personality phases. They were more than acquaintances for a cup of coffee. Then Lisa got tanked on vodka fueled chocolate milk at a party that led to her and Chuck Abernathy christening the backseat of her sea green ‘98 Chevy Cavalier. Ben and Lisa went back to being acquaintances, but things got awkward. They eventually separated, but then she came back into his life because she ended up dating his friend Terrance Clemons. This is a web we don’t need to get trapped in.

“Parent complaints,” she continued, and leaned forward on her desk. “It seems that Macey and a few of her friends got into a discussion about God, and Jesus. Macey told her friends what her thoughts were on the matter.”

Ben smiles and then looks at Claire. They share a quick chuckle and then Ben looks back at Mrs. Clemons.

“That sounds like our Macey,” he says.

“Are you aware, Ben, that Macey does not believe in God?” Mrs. Clemons immediately asks them. She tilts her head and looks specifically at Ben.

“I am aware,” Ben retorts. “We've had this discussion with her. Before we go any further, can I bring in my Attorney? I want to make sure that we’re doing this to code.”

Mrs. Clemons isn’t fast enough to stop them. Ben signals Claire and then she’s quick to the door. In walks Dean Gullberry, dressed to the nines in a well tailored suit, playing the part of the ever-so-sleazy, greasy, attorney.

“This is Mr. Dean Gullberry,” Ben sits and Dean stands like a statue next to him. “He’s my legal advisor of many years. He's just here to moderate. You know - ensure that none of us say something that we will legally regret.”

“Mrs. Clemons, Lisa,” Claire jumps in, “what Ben’s trying to say is that we understand this situation may get out of hand. We will take care of this. You know we will.”

“Yes, and I appreciate that,” Mrs. Clemons replies. She leans back in her chair. “Ben, I think we can all agree that Macey is an extremely bright girl. I also understand, I do, that you want your child to have a freedom of choice in the matter. That's fair. But, if we are going to talk about it under this roof? Help her adjust the context so that it doesn't get her into any trouble. Make sense?”

“I get it,” Ben says. Then Dean leans in and whispers into Ben’s ear. Whatever Dean said was quick, but it was enough to irritate Ben.

“Yea, whatever,” Ben says with a hint of defeat.

“You simply take the steps needed to hold up your end of the deal,” Mrs. Clemons adds with assurance. “I'll do the same. I appreciate your time today and it was great to see you again.”

She stands and extends her hand over the desk. Claire is the first to respond with a handshake. Lisa turns to Ben.

“Pretty cool, yea?” Ben asks with an awkward smile. His eyes stare into Lisa’s soul.

“What's that?” She’s confused, but it’s obvious that she knows Ben well enough to understand his shenanigans.

“Here we are,” he says as he looks around the room. “You, there. Me, here. Remember when we hung out in Matt’s basement?” Ben knows this is a rhetorical question. “Haaaa, yea you do,”

“Dean, off the record here,” Ben says turning to his attorney, and then he looks at Claire, “strip poker, hun. Couples strip poker,” finally his attention is back at Mrs. Clemons. “Lisa and I were on a team. We won, but we all won that night, needless to say.”

Lisa’s arm still waits for Ben’s handshake, but she pulls it back to her side. Her eyes fill with shame. The silence is broken by an enthusiastic Ben Lynch.

“Look at us now!” He exclaims. Ben slaps Lisa’s desk and then walks around Dean. “I have an Attorney to officiate this shindig because everyone is a snake in the grass,” he says as Claire follows him to the door. Ben stops and looks back at Lisa. “You're asking me to tell my kid that she can't tell people how she feels. And about God, of all subjects.”

She doesn’t say a word. Her arms stay at her sides. Dean still hasn’t left his position, and that could be the reason she’s uncomfortably mute.

“Hm. Yeah,” Ben smiles, looks around the office one more time, and then back at Lisa. “That's pretty cool.”

Ben and Claire exit the office. Dean and Lisa stare at each other. Memoir Excerpt: Afro Mike’s Backyard, August 9th, 2001, Ohio We moved to Ohio in 1995 for reasons that I won't disclose.

I wouldn’t say that I was a fat kid. My mom said that I was big boned. I pictured a man’s insides; the rib cage most of the time. I imagined the bones expanding to an abnormal size, or bigger than most. A conclusion was eventually reached: my bones are fatter than other kids’ bones.

It was the summer of 2001.  I was a rambunctious teenager with the world in the palm of my chubby hands.

Don't expect backyard wrestling teenagers, during the fetal stages of Millennial Hell, to have the best music tastes. Drowning Pool was a solid choice selection for a 250 pound, well-rounded, badass, who was known for letting the bodies hit the floor.

“The challenger!” Andy Weisenberg’s shout could be heard by all, but he played the part better with a microphone in hand. The cheap Rite Aid microphone was jacked into an even cheaper boom box. You can only hear Andy through the speakers if you are sitting next to the stereo. The sound was very scratchy.

Not far from Andy was the rotator camera man. Everyone controlled the camera at some point, but right now it was ‘T-Dog’ Trevor Hamlin behind the Panasonic AF X8 CCD that I found for $5 at a yard sale during my paper route.

“From Chicago, Illinois,” Andy continued. Trevor zoomed in just as Dave Williams (lead singer of Drowning Pool - R.I.P.) unleashes the roar that is the chorus to the hit rage: Bodies. “Weighing in at a whopping 250 pounds,” there’s always a tiny bit of butterflies during this moment, but I jump through the doorway of the unfinished two story garage that acted as our backstage. I embrace my beloved fans. “He is ‘Big Boned’ Ben Lynch!”

The crowd is supposed to boo profusely because I actually hate people. We didn't have a crowd, so I'd often boo in my head.

I wore a skull mask with an animated jaw. It moved when I spoke, which was neat. I always wore different World Industries t-shirts that I'd waste my money on to keep CCS in business. Remember that blast from the past? I wasn't a skateboarder though. I was far too dense with a unique gravitational pull. I enjoyed the brands and the look. I think the JNCO jeans that consumed my Etnies may have been overboard? The bottom of each leg shared the same width as the waist: a healthy size 40.

Hindsight is 20/20, and I kind of wished both of my pant legs were that wide.

The start of the match was unorthodox because Afro Mike wanted to take me to pound town. We met off the trampoline and decked each other with mediocre haymakers. Mike was in great shape. He’s as tall as me, but he was lean. His pale skin was sunburned and covered in freckles. He also had an afro that made his head look ablaze. Hence Afro Mike, Cornelius Carrot XXIV, or a ghetto hillbilly ginger. His soul is sus by default.

I took control and wanted to toss him onto the trampoline. Mike went hip first into the stainless side rail and bent 90 degrees so that the side of his burnt freckled face slapped the hot bouncy canvas. He was supposed to go on, not in, to the trampoline. His fate was sealed. Afro Mike wept. He was subsequently vanquished using my finishing maneuver known as ‘the Infamous Bone Crusher’.

We smoked a blunt thereafter, so it was all water under the bridge. Tokyo, Japan - Shibuya ward - 7 March - Late Night Ben is stoic although Manhunt on his mind. He’s been here before, and he’s had many chances to grab the brass ring. The ball has been rolled onto his side of the court many, many times. It’s not that he fails, because he’s won a few, but it’s that he would get overzealous. Emotions got the best of him. Some folks are born with the ability to capture lightning in a bottle every time they’re faced with adversity. Ben tends to consistently forget the bottle. There’s no need to put his hopes up too much. He’s lost more than he’s ever won, and he’s getting very used to that.

The Shibuya nightlife is exactly what Ben is looking for. He aimlessly wanders and is dressed out of sync with the unique culture that surrounds him. Ben’s obviously gaijin, and sticks out like a heavily wounded thumb, but he smiles when realizing that nobody cares. The streets of Shibuya flow with folks on a mission, friends seeking fun, lovers seeking pleasure, tourists seeking a fantasy, and wrestlers on a manhunt. But, nobody cares about Ben Lynch. That’s exactly the motivation and weapon that he needed to progress toward Culture Shock.

As cliche as it may sound: the universe works in mysterious ways. Over a million eyeballs shimmy around him, and their attention is directed everywhere except where he stands. A sudden chill waves through Ben’s body as he realizes that there’s only one set of eyes in Japan that notice him. Rising slowly after retrieving his edible bug from the MOGBUG vending machine is a pale and frightened Timmy. Yes, IT Timmy, the same Timmy that changed Ben’s Jabber handle. The same Timmy that’s been booting Ben off Jabber every chance he can get.

It’s just like an event in a Rings and Wrestlers campaign. The character is walking along when suddenly they’re faced with a small piece of the bigger picture. Ben doesn’t need a die to determine his move, fortunately. That’s unfortunate for Timmy, however, because he’ll most likely wake up tomorrow morning with his head inside the steamy colon of a Japanese black cow. So, what does Ben do?

Timmy’s eyes almost pop out of his thin skull and shatter the thick lenses of his spectacles. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down due to a heavy gulp. He’s overcome with fear, he may need new underwear, and he has absolutely no idea what to do next. His knees rattle together.

“It…it…it was a joke…” Timmy chokes out what may be his last words.

Ben stares blankly at Timmy for a moment before a grin suddenly appears, then followed by laughter. But the laughter doesn’t last long, and Ben stops on a dime; his face blank once again. He glares at the young man across from him, and then smirks.

“It’s always a joke,” Ben insidiously says.

One man down.  Many more to go.

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