Mlementum (Time Traveler [Bird Sons])

It started with just the one horrible purchase; soon, Julien Lavigne’s craving for unfathomable apartment artwork overwhelmed him.

“Bird Son”, in all its FLAMBOyance, gained a few friends. None of them were nearly as large, and none of them featured a distressed naked man giving you his opinions about his “human child,” but it wouldn’t take much convincing for the layman to agree that the new pieces in Julien Lavigne’s apartment were created by the same “artist.” The Frenchman always struggled to remember their name…what was it again?

Julien broke his gaze from the woodpecker-headed humanoid (WoodMan (ManPecker)) in “Bird Son” and looked to the bottom corner. He found the artist’s signature; they had dipped the backs of fingers and knuckles in bright yellow paint and punched the canvas.

Seemed mean, but that’s artists, he figured.

“Who?” questions soon left Julien’s mind as his eyes wandered, unblinkingly, across the enormous canvas that cost several months’ rent. He encountered visual oddities he was not prepared to unpack, even upon second, third, fourth viewings. In recent days, every time he found himself stuck in these moments of hypnotic obsession, he felt like he would blink and suddenly be back at the art dealer in the expensive part of residential Las Vegas. Time would pass without him knowing, he would have entire conversations with Uber Black drivers he’d never remember again, and suddenly he’d snap back to reality with a glass of complimentary pink bubbles and some new fresh hell in his sights.

That’s how “Bird Son” was joined by “The Trees Are Endangered,” “Moray Eel Of The Sky,” and “Have None Bird Sons”.

…

“Of course, it’s only natural for the cultural elites like ourselves to be drawn to a muse. The art, it has a way of not only speaking to us, but through us,” the dealer droned on as Julien’s eye was captured by a portrait called “Man Half Empty,” even before he realized he was back at the dealership at all. Whiplash again. Julien lost count of how many times this happened.

“Man Half Empty” featured a large drinking glass that encompassed nearly the entire canvas; and, well, half of a person inside of it. But not the top half, or the bottom half, or even a whole side; it was basically the middle trunk, without the extremities. Not even gory, just missing parts. Torso and bits. Not necessarily obvious that it’s even a body at all and not a rather disfigured pillow.

Julien looked in the bottom corner of the painting. It had been punched by a lime green fist this time. He then took a glance at the price tag - “only” $1,200. A steal at twice that amount, he thought.

“Ouais, through us,” replied Julien. The dealer snapped his fingers and a couple nearby attendants with white gloves approached “Man Half Empty” and pulled it from display. The purchase was done; the art dealer’s newest cash cow had fallen into the strangest rhythm he ever saw, but paint hadn’t flown off the walls like this in a long time, so he wasn’t about to ask questions. When a famous wrestler decides he’s going to put your children through college AND remove some of the most bizarre and confusing pieces in the gallery, why try to fix what isn’t broken?

…

The art. The bizarre, bizarre art. It was taking over the place.

Forces beyond his comprehension had locked onto this idea, and his body was almost forced to execute its vision. Thank goodness he earns what he does in order to afford all these purchases, though if he spent any time at all looking into his finances, he would be distressed to learn how much these purchases forced a delay for him to purchase a replacement for the FLAMBOrghini that’s worthy of him (a FLAMBentley?)

All the bare beige walls, all the sterile decay in his living space became overrun with tens of thousands of dollars worth of oil on canvas that he couldn’t understand, let alone try to explain to anyone else.

Though to be fair, it’s not like people ever came over, or were even invited.

This apartment never really felt like a “home” and it was never going to get any closer to feeling that way.

But while he was there, for convenience’s sake as much as anything else during his rest days, he would make sure he felt something.

Even if it’s something he doesn’t understand.

Because it wasn’t just “who?” questions that were on the outs. “Why?” questions had left long ago.

…

—-- It’s okay to look. That’s an eel over there in one of them, flapping its wings that it shouldn’t have in a sky that should suffocate it; a Test Pilot for the species or perhaps, for himself just to see if he can. … I called you that once, many moons ago: The Test Pilot. I told you the strength you would need to have to pave the way - to do this first - to chart a pathway never seen before which will never be seen again, after you after we’re done. Even after the wreckage left in your wake this year, every bell rung, every hand lifted, every fake friend chokebombed into the professional wrestling equivalent of a chalk outline, we’re still only partway  there. If we don’t finish this, not only is it not a new path; it’s not a path at all but instead the miserable failings of a dog, unworthy and unforgivable, whose next best hope would be to make closer friends with his fleas and joof off some more. … Chandler Tsonda would send you there to that cold, dark place if it were up to him.  The Model Citizen, who’s a few short games of pickleball away from being a proper 50-year-old, is still aggressively handsome still aggressively persistent still aggressively here; despite everything, he’s still here even though in reality he’s trying so very hard not to be “here.” Like so many Olds, the deep, guttural urge for one last run, one more shot at the big one makes Chandler Tsonda  a monster with old bones; the scary sort of creature that would risk being eaten alive for more glory more glory more glory glory that is rightfully yours; glory that won’t satisfy him any more than it used to. It would be much safer for him instead to brush up on his sudoku, invest in some new reading glasses, get some sensible slacks, and catch up on Forged In Fire as professional wrestling rockets into the future without him…. but he’ll never do that. Not for you, not for anyone. He’d prefer the feel of teeth around his neck and the dark, acidic pit  of a stomach. …. If only he could turn back the clock and make it 2008 again, how much easier it would be to be at the peak of his powers while the scariest man alive was still in primary school. Then he could take wrestling backwards again, make the Model Citizen into the A-List again; win it all win the greatest prize in the world before going to bed at a reasonable hour and hoping that his bump card  still has a few more clicks; clicks he knows deep in his guts he’s already spent, clicks that he may or may not understand incur a debt with compound interest. … He’s like a  time traveler running from the future. And he’s doing a damn good job of convincing the world that they too should like to go backwards. … —-- Julien found himself on a plane. Pay-per-views always had extra rigamarole, and the office had scheduled him for a number of extra appearances and events in the week leading up to Ascension.

Autograph signings, meets and/or greets, more panel interviews, some promo shoot where he would have to drive a car around for something called a Nas-Car, and more; Deb Warrenstein really loaded up his calendar.

But as rubber met tarmac at Indianapolis International Airport, all he could think about was making a beeline to his hotel and ordering some burgers. Plural.

PRIME arranged for a driver to pick him up, and they did a wonderful job of discreetly delivering Julien to the hotel without too many wrestling fans noticing; that, or what normally would be a 20 minute drive felt like 2 due to his continued dissociative losses of time and he just didn’t notice.

As he emerged from the vehicle and throngs of no one in particular stood in the lobby, not giving a particular damn about him, he decided that maybe it was a little bit of both.

…

His room was taupe - not to be confused with beige. Though they’re both your classic neutrals, there are stark differences between taupe and beige. As we all know, beige is warmer, lighter, more fitting for a semi-permanent residence in the desert sun; taupe is darker, sleeker, and for the benefit of hotel staff, easier to mask stains.

In fact, there’s a whole spectrum of khakis and almonds and milk coffees out there for the boring real estate owner to parse through; it’s a truly daunting part of the landlord role that too few consider before entering real estate.

There was art on the walls - useless, absolutely useless art. Bland nature scenes, a black and white photograph of downtown Indianapolis; not a single thread of uniqueness for his brain to tug at for even a second. What he wouldn’t give to have “Bird Son” or even “Have None Bird Sons” with him on the trip, if only to help keep his feet under him; alas, most airlines won’t let you check a 9 foot long modern art piece.

Worse than the art was the signature - it was legible. Someone was proud enough of each of these works that they actively chose to associate themselves with them forever.

“D. Beckwith” hacked away at a boring river scene. “J. Rosenbaum” took the downtown photo that anyone with a newish iPhone and a little bit of free time could have taken themselves. Neither one of them had the courage to physically assault their artwork with their fists, a suddenly infuriating prospect for a man who only very recently became heavily involved in an art scene he still doesn’t understand. He had half a mind to find something in his room that would leave marks, cover his own knuckles, and punch over those signatures - though he didn’t linger on these thoughts much longer.

His stomach rumbled. Yeah, this would be a two burger night. Room service would have him covered. He made sure to ask for two bottles of bubbly - a rosé to go with his enormous dinner, and something a little pricier that he planned to save for later.

After an amount of time that Julien was incapable of tracking, his door knocked.

… —-- You’re feeling it. And it’s fair for once. … You have rocketed forward with ever-increasing speeds all year; a freight train that, dutifully, you continue to throw tracks in front of whether out of loyalty, fear, courage, fortitude,  or the sheer dumb automation of a husk who doesn’t ask for control anymore because to consider any alternative would just take time that we refuse to waste. Sheer, unflinching mlementum catapulting this cold-blooded lizard headlong mouth and tongue first, swallowing  so fucking much. This is what it looks like - to lead from the front, to experience what it’s like to crash face first through panes of glass as you did last winter; once bloodied, today nigh-unstoppable with a pile of broken glass and another pile - remains of fallen wrestlers miles behind you. … You feel my influence spreading, don’t you? Beyond you within you without you, the choices your enemies and adversaries make and the paths they think they take to try to chase you down. An evil book that turned Max Kael (or that other Max Kael)’s eyes green; Thick Neck rituals; the imitators and fakes who think that I’m just a trick, a rabbit in a hat that just anyone can pull without the sheer fucking commitment this road takes of you, when I’m something else entirely.  … Sometimes I think all I’m ever doing is trying to convince the world I’m alive; living, if not breathing, growing, if not changing, hungry. Hunger, itself, who absolutely requires the satisfaction of a meal well-earned. Not unlike you. … —--  The burgers were outside the door, and Julien was on the floor. This wasn’t the first time this situation had presented itself, and it wouldn’t be the last.

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine “Bird Son” in his mind. There was the naked bald man with the wild face, there was the ManPecker, there was the comic book text reading “MY HUMAN CHILD SUCKS.”

What did Julien hope to see as his mind kept returning to this place? Even if one were to ask, it’s unlikely he could answer. He wasn’t “here” at the moment - he was miles away. Away from the taupe and into the beige, away from the shitty “safe” hotel room artwork and towards his comforting and worrying collection that may one day end up on Hoarders, if he’s lucky. And he was transfixed.

He thought about “The Trees Are Endangered” hanging up next to “Bird Son”, before turning his head on the ground towards a window where the very-alive branches of a majestic oak flowed in the late summer breeze.

That small head movement revealed a little bit of a crick in Julien’s neck - the kind of crick that sometimes occurs when you’ve slept the wrong way on it - he checked his phone. Two hours had passed since the door had knocked. He was still on the ground. He still hadn’t eaten.

His stomach roared loudly enough that if there was another hotel guest that shared a wall with him, Julien was sure they would’ve heard it. He doesn’t roll towards the door, nor does he worm-crawl - he gets to his feet like an adult human man. His stomach lurches as he takes a few steps. As he opens the door, he sees a black plastic tray and two plastic containers that are completely steamed up. Picking them up, he finds the containers to be room temperature.

He wonders for a moment how safe it would be to eat such a lukewarm pair of burgers (and lest we forget, the accompanying steak frites), and then his stomach loudly rumbles again. The hunger pangs become too much.

He throws one of the plastic lids off and takes an enormous bite.

… —-- Mlementum moves forward through time as all things should in a just world. Mlementum does not like to go backwards like so many wish they could. You have two burgers: one for now,  one for right after now. You have two bottles: one for now, one for a hopeful future where there would be a reason to celebrate and a toast to be shared (if you can find anyone to toast with) (is Joe ok? you haven’t checked on him) (...maybe later). You would never look at your burgers and decide it would be better if these were burgers from 17 years ago. No - we both are keenly aware one day, the hooves that get threshed may one day be your own if you overstay your welcome; but in the meantime you, the man who literally waved the banner, the man who embodies the present and the future; you, who stood alone as a preacher on the street proselytizing the good word of Glue laying down the first tracks on the mlementous path of what it will mean  to be a professional wrestler in the world today, tomorrow, for a generation or more; you must stop this Time Traveler from crashing this. From crashing the whole ride. You may be the most dangereux man in PRIME, but Chandler Tsonda? He’s dangerous enough, experienced enough, crazy enough, selfish enough, egotistical enough, to look at our great works of art and fail to see the bigger picture and his role in it as extremely beautiful, sentimentally honored buckets and fucking buckets of glue. Chandler Tsonda thinks this is his second, third, fourth - or better put, his last moment. He thinks everything is happening again, at him. He’s survived enough wars to understand that sometimes, murder is the one true solution. His career blossomed into full-time regular use when you were still mastering colors. And if you give him even a window of opportunity to go back in time for good, this ageless wonder this handsome sonofabitch, this former champ on the most red-hot heater he’s had in the ReVival Era could hit the Panic Switch and derail the most culturally significant motherfucker alive. … How troubling it would be. How much you would have to answer for then; to Hayes, who took a Rose-shaped bullet for you that would all be for naught, to Joe, who’s had your back since before you could remember his first name that you’ve set to the side for what would be a monumental failed pursuit, to Cecilworth, who might be starting to get the fucking picture about the jet engine screaming in his direction, to all the champions you’ve beaten on the way here, to Phil, who accepted you as the first member of the Glue Factory outside of his known inner circle, to yourself, to ME. … ………. —-- FLAMBERGE - not Julien, but FLAMBERGE - looked down and saw that he’d left an absolute mess of crumbs and burger bits and melted cheese on the table in front of him. At least his stomach had quieted down.

He didn’t remember actually eating the things. He was a little nervous to look in the mirror, frankly, considering the room temperature remnants scattered in front of him.

But he scooted his chair back and stood up. No more nerves, not now. 2025 is not the past, and FLAMBERGE - not Julien, but FLAMBERGE - wasn’t about to curl up into a ball out of fear, or panic.

In 2025, FLAMBERGE is the titan. In 2025, FLAMBERGE carries with him the banner, the literal standard of what it takes to be the absolute best wrestler in the world - not just today, but into the future.

He may lose moments along the way, he may finally be coming to terms with the fact that this grappling with sinister mental forces beyond his understanding will follow him for the rest of his life, and he may understand - truly understand - that the blistering velocity of this rocket ship likely means that things in other areas of his life will get far worse before they get better.

But that’s the bargain he made, and that’s the bargain he will keep. He, too, is a Time Traveler - forever forward, forever at the forefront

(even if,

just right this moment,

he also happens to be a burger boy

with a messy face.)

…

He finds the bathroom and looks in the mirror.

He becomes acutely aware - the reflection he’s staring into is something that’s staring even harder back at him.

And he has crumbs in his beard.

…

He cracks a little grin at the sight, and juts out his tongue towards a big one.

mlem.