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Are you selfish, Julien? I am.  Always have been. I don’t have cold, dead lizard eyes to hide behind. Every room I’ve ever walked into, they notice this face first. And on it, they see ego, vanity, selfishness.  We learn to be what others expect of us, don’t we? I figured out that what people wanted from me was that beautiful-but-venal creature. That’s “Chandler Tsonda,” the character I played until I figured out who I was. The character I still play when I forget who I am.  It’s centering, that feeling, like seeing a lighted buoy on an open water swim. I look for the selfishness, and I find Chandler again. Did you find one day that Julien at his most self-centered could become something elemental, the Neck Collector, FLAMBERGE? Did you find that it was easier to be what others expected? Prodigy, wunderkind, enfant terrible. You’ve done so magnificently in this role, a boy-king before our very eyes. Look at you, right there on the poster for Ascension.  I know you better than at our meet-cute two years ago, but I still barely know you.  I guess we barely know anyone but ourselves. There’s no VR headset to see us as others see us, no way to escape from the Alcatraz of our own heads. But I have a sneaking suspicion I know what you want, because it’s what I want: everything. Don’t we have enough? Riches to fill a lifetime. Title reigns in spades. Hall of Fame plaques (deux pour moi, no offense). It should be enough, but we both know the truth. Enough is never enough. The rube says: neither of those studs needs the Almasy or the Universal Title.  The fuck do they know? Let them eat cake, am I right?  I think that for you and I, the want is the need. The self is the center. My story is the story. Galaxy and universe revolving around me me me MEmeMEmeME. It’s in the marrow of how we move through the world of wrestling. Le Protaganiste. The Narcissist’s Noose. Our selfishness is a feature, not a bug. You don’t have to explain why you want the Almasy. Actually, it’s easier to wrench it from you if I don’t know why. Because I don’t dislike you. I just want what I want.  And I’m wickedly, terribly, infinitely selfish.  /~/~/~/~/ “Chan, pay attention to something other than your reflection for a freakin’ second.” My cousin, as ever. “I’m trying to figure out the difference between these.” Chandler stands astride two of the most exorbitantly priced, kitted-out strollers that Swiss engineering can devise, and looks like he’s taking the SAT. Like everything he does these days, it’s endearing, and maddening, and jesus christ I have to pee again. “They’re the same.” “No, this one is a hundred dollars more.” “It’s probably got a cupholder or some freakin’ upsell.” “Now, cousin,” he says, wagging a finger without lifting his gaze from the product information placards, “one thing a man is gonna do in a damn stroller store is understand some specs and really get under the hood of these bad boys.” “They’re both fine, Chan.” “Aubrey Calvino.” He lifts his eyes and there’s fire in them, but no edge. I know this means he wants to argue. “If you think that my gorgeous, talented, genius little baby niece will spend a single second in a stroller that is merely fine on my watch, then I’ll call child services right now.” I know he means well, and the distraction is nice. Being somewhere other than the house or the office is nice. But it feels hard to focus on anything with my psycho sperm donor or baby daddy or…whatever Tim is, out there lurking. Not outside the store, but somewhere out there. “Extra cupholder it is.” I indulge him. Chandler cocks his head at me. He’s not hard to read. “What?” “You good? We can bail if you’re not feeling it.” “It’s great.” Even I don’t believe me. I clear my throat and try again. “It’s great, Chan. I’m embarrassed that you even know how to get us private shopping at a ritzy nursery store like this. It’s…I’m flattered.” “Flattered, but not happy.” Like I said. He means well, but sometimes I think he wants me to want the things he wants. “She’s going to love whatever her favorite uncle gets her, Chan.” “You hear that, Celery?” He talks to my bump like he’s doing one of his promos. “That’s a direct order from your mother to love me, and permission to spoil you. And, hey no biggie, but could you please show up on time because we’re syncing up nicely the possibility of your arrival and my second crowning as Univer—ah shit, I gotta take this.” Chandler steps outside to take the call. I admire the more expensive of the two strollers and start to make conversation with one of the clerks. I know Chandler will have made it worth their while to stay out of our hair while we browse. While he doesn’t want it in the press, and would deflect a thousand times in public, he’s become even more zealous about giving away his money. He’s not perfect, but he’s trying. “Hey, sorry about that,” he says, after hanging up. “I like the one on the left.” “I knew you’d come around.” He grins. “With a catch, though.” “Ok yes fine I’ll win at Ascension and thank you first in my tearful speech about overcoming the odds.” “You need to do something about Ettore’s house.” “I’m— “You’re stalling.” I’m sick of talking about this, but otherwise he’ll never do anything about it. It’s a dusty old museum of all the things Chandler hopes to never be, and he needs it like he needs a hole in the head. “By the end of the month, it’s on the market, in a trust, or I start giving every realtor in Southern California your cell number.” “You wouldn’t.” “My hormones are off the charts. Don’t test me.” “Ok,” he says, shrugging his shoulders acceptantly. “Ok?” “I said ok, ok?” He takes a beat. “You wanna look at carseats?” “Don’t push your luck.” /~/~/~/~/ Thursday 1:28 PM You renamed the conversation “Disparage FLAMBERGE and Compliment Chandler Hour” You guys get the ticket transfers? Yessir Yep Jaime, you’re driving? Yessir You’re picking me up right? Yessir Stop saying that Yessir Omg chill Please revisit the conversation title and act accordingly. Still can’t believe you beat Ivan that’s crazy Job’s not done yet Fuck Ivan Yessir Amen. Mr Tsonda can I ask a prolly dumb question All the questions you ask are dumb Relaaaaaaax Sure. But my answer is the same: do not under any circumstances “shoot your shot” with Angelica Brooks. Dios mio can I live Ask your question, Jaime. So like I know you wanna win the Almasy Is that the question I told you he was gonna ask something dumb Nah hold on a sec while I type So you wanna win the Almasy fr But you already have the Golden Ticket and a Uni shot So what do you need the Almasy for? You’re asking what’s left to gain Like I said: STUPID Ok if you’re so smart then explain it It’s about more than the Universal Title shot, dumdum It’s about preventing an All-Glue Colossus It’s about saying I’m THE best high stakes wrestler in PRIME It’s about becoming the only person in fed history to win TWO #1 contender tournaments It’s about, ya know, ascension to the throne Like the PPV title says Damn ok you don’t gotta be mean about it Jasmine’s got most of it. I also want my lick back against FLAMBERGE for ReV 34. I don’t want any old Uni shot. I want Colossus. I want one more dance in the brightest lights for all the gold. I want you guys, and Aubrey, and my little niece to see me do what I’m best at on the biggest stage. Kai too? Damn Jaz chill What? I’m just asking No it’s fine. I dunno, honestly. Maybe. I want to climb the mountain one more time to know I still can. You’ll get it when you’re old someday. Ok but like What if you brought brass knuckles out there and KO’d FLAMBERGE You get DQ’d, he “wins” But he’s all messed up You save yourself for your Uni shot Against whoever wins on Night Two Where CF and DD kill each other And you breeze into a Uni win anyway and defend at Colossus The dummy finally said something smart Vete a la mierda! You better not talk to me like that lil boy Children, play nice. I get what you’re saying, Jaime. Think about it like this: would you rather a guaranteed countout win every match or a 50/50 shot but you gotta actually take the fight to them? The first one? I can’t believe you won a championship before me omg omg The competition is too good in PRIME to try and game the odds. There is no zero risk path to glory. So yeah, there’s a chance that FLAMBO injures me, or I lose, or I tweak my back, and it screws up my banked Uni shot. But when you’re playing to avoid losing, it’s impossible to win. You don’t get to the top by choosing the best probability path every time. And if you can’t get your blood pumping for a grudge match tournament final against another Hall of Famer, Golden Ticket be damned, then you don’t deserve to be anyone’s Universal Champion anyway. Oh ok he’s cutting a promo on us Jaz Should we do the LETS GO CHAND-LER chant for you Haha, very funny. I understand Mr Tsonda you’re saying like You gotta find a reason to keep going, keep fighting Because that’s what makes somebody a worthy champion Now you’re talking like somebody who deserves that gold you’ve got around your waist! Playing it safe never got anybody to the Colossus main event. I know that’s right That’s why I’m doing this neck surgery Ayyyyyy When you scheduled idk yet, still working on details Chandler doesn’t like when I talk about it tho What are you talking about I can tell when you’re mad I’m not mad I support you all the way Here comes the but Can we talk about this after Ascension please? Or just call me Not everything can be solved in the groupchat Kk Ah mierda I’m late I gg See ya See yall in Nap Town /~/~/~/~/ This is all very strange to me. It feels like something that would happen to someone with a life more exciting than mine. “Hey man,” Chandler says. We meet up outside the private clinic. Last time here, buccal swaps and blood draws were taken from both of us. These will combine to produce a highly accurate indicator of whether Chandler is my biological father. This is all very strange to me. “Hi.” “How you feeling?” “I’ve received several abnormal heart rate notifications from my Apple Watch. I believe this may be a symptom of anxiety.” “You’ve never had anxiety? No son of mine,” he says, and laughs. I have learned that this is him using humor to lighten an otherwise fraught situation. I like that, and I allow myself to laugh too. There is a tapdancing feeling in my stomach. “Should we go in?” “Kai, wait.” Chandler is a very impatient man. I am surprised that he has not already ushered us in with the urgency of a firefighter outside a five-alarm blaze. “If you’re worried that I will become emotional inside, don’t worry. I have a very good poker face. I enjoy both the blackjack and hold ‘em tables, with five- and ten-dollar blinds in Atlantic City. I’ve been told I’m nearly impossible to read at the table. It’s quite an advantage. Have you ever— “I’m not worried about that.” Chandler is quiet for a moment. This is alarming, because Chandler is never quiet. His mouth is a typewriter, where he produces a full line of thought and then, with the click of the carriage return, there he is stamping away another line of thought. It can be overwhelming, but it has also been very quiet in my life ever since my mother’s death. I quite like someone else filling all that space. “I’d tell you to sit down,” he says. “But I guess you’re already doing that.” “Would you like me to stand up instead?” He laughs. This is not a laugh to lighten the conversation, but indicates that he too is feeling nervous. “Kai, I need to tell you something difficult.” “I’m prepared.” “The clinic already called me. I know, I know, before you get upset— “Do I appear upset? I thought I was doing my best poker fa— “Your face is fine. It’s basically my face. It’s great.” “I thought we agreed that we would get the results together.” Chandler furrows his brow and rubs his thumb and forefinger across his forehead. “We did. This place is used to doing very sensitive, very discrete testing for people like me. Rich people. They called me because they wanted me to know the results ahead of time. They wanted to help me…manage what to do about it. I didn’t ask them to, I swear.” I think I understand, but my mouth is very dry, and I am finding it hard to say anything. I nod and want Chandler to keep explaining. “I’m very sorry that I found out without you. I’d understand if you felt betrayed.” I suck at the back of my tongue, trying to produce saliva. “I don’t want you to find out from some well-meaning clinician, Kai. I want you to hear from me.” “Thank you,” I say, which is not what I wanted to say. I always know what I want to say, even when I struggle to say it. This is all very strange to me. “You’re my son, Kai. I’m…I’m your biological father. Your mom was right.” I am glad to be sitting down. That was very thoughtful of Chandler. Something in my inner ear seems to tip over. I remember a day when my mother brought me to the transparent glass walkway at the top of the Space Needle, and I looked straight down hundreds of feet to where, down on the ground, another woman carried her son on her shoulders. I feel as though I am both on top of that glass walkway and on my mother’s shoulders on the ground level. “Take your time to let it all sink in. We don’t need to say anything.” “But you love talking.” “I do,” he laughs. “See, you’re getting to know me already. Listen, I don’t want to rush into anything. And if you’d like to be alone, I’ll get out of your hair. But I feel accountable, and wanted to tell you myself. I’m hoping we can do something about all that lost time.” “I’m not quite sure what to say.” “You’ll figure the words out. You’re a Tsonda.” “Are you expecting me to change my name?” Now he is laughing again. Unexpectedly, I am laughing as well. My heart goes tattattattat but my stomach is not tapdancing anymore. Some part of me wants to see the data, to explore the Y chromosomal traces in a replicable way, and verify. And an unfamiliar part of me wants merely for this one good thing to be true. “Your name is fine as it is. And this is gonna sound weird, but you know that house you came to the first time we met? It was my dad’s. He was a real fuck. And I think I know just the person who should live in it. Wait, no, you know what, let’s do this right. You want a beer?” “I do love a tart sour beer on a hot day like today. Could we find one?” “We could, and we will. And then we can talk about everything else.” I am not always good at understanding other people. I prefer the empirical things that can be proven or disproven. A poker hand is a win or a loss. A race in the pool is fast enough or it is not. A bracket wins or is busted. I do not have the hard data to explain why, but I am very happy to have met Chandler. /~/~/~/~/ Before These calls are my kryptonite. Our clients are powerful and wealthy. They’re not used to hearing bad news, and can be unpredictable. I take my job as clinic director seriously, so I make the hard calls myself. I dial. “Ah shit, I gotta take this,” says the voice on the other line, before a pause. “Hello?” “Is this Chandler? This is Dr. Colson from Biotrust Genetics.” “Yeah, hey. You got results?” “I do.” “Oh Christ,” he says. He sounds nervous. “Alright. So can Kai and I come in tomorrow?” “Yes, I’ll be here. I’ll walk everyone through the data. It’s quite conclusive.” “Well…” He drifts off, and I almost cut in to see if he’s still there. “It’s good there’s no mystery.” “Always my goal to get our clients peace of mind one way or another. And Chandler, I truly appreciate the faith you’ve placed in us with such a sensitive matter.” Neither of us speaks. I never know whether these rich guys want foreplay or straight action. But Chandler sounds like he’s got a lot on his mind. And top dollar gets you what you’re not going to get anywhere else in the medical establishment: accuracy, while skipping the line. I’ll save the foreplay for my wife. “If I were in your shoes, I’d want to know before coming. There is effectively a zero percent chance that you are Kai Carter’s father.” Phew. Load off my mind. And probably off his. This is why I made sure we wrote our contract language just so. I had those lawyers write me wiggle room, safely outside of HIPAA so I could let whoever’s bankrolling the testing know the answer first. Of course I care about giving people the essential biological truths they so need, and medical ethics. But I also care about job security, and my kids’ private school. “Hello? Chander?” “Yeah.” This guy’s hard to read. Is he relieved? Pissed? Shit, he’s receiving his get-out-of-child-support free card. I don’t need a thank you, the money’s enough. But it wouldn’t hurt. “Thanks for that,” he says. Well, now was that so hard? And then he surprises me. “Don’t ever contact me again.” /~/~/~/~/ It would make sense for you to win, Julien. I’m not immune to seeing outside of myself; I don’t care for it, but I have two eyes and can see this. I have my Golden Ticket and the scalp of Cancer Jiles. I harpooned my Russian white whale. I can keep myself warm at night with my 2007 Jewel in the Crown trophy. I should be proud of this tournament run, still alive atop the corpses of thirty men who aren’t. I should say things like: two Hall of Famers in a dream match for a shot at the biggest title at the biggest show in the sport. That’s all anyone can ask for. I should count my blessings. I should be happy just to be here.  No. No.  No. No. No. No. I don’t accept that this Almasy final is about you, Julien. I respect you. You’re a killer. You’re the once and future king. You’re the Glue holding PRIME together. But if you want an Almasy on your mantle, rest up and try for 2026. Because I may not hate who I see in the mirror anymore, but I’m still selfish as ever. I have these incredible people in my life, with one new addition, and one more soon. I even know what to do with that fucking curse of a house. It used to be a fair trade: give up the trappings of a happy life in order to be the best in the ring. And then a different fair trade: give up the maniacal pursuit of the top spot in this sport to find a few pebbles of joy to put in my pocket and hope to keep. I’m not trading anymore. I want it all, double time. I’ll tap out on always being honest. I’ll tap out on the hopes of being around for the 2027 Almasy when, hell, you’ll barely be entering your prime. I’ll tap out on ever getting past my selfishness. But I’m not tapping out to your guillotine choke. Not now, not ever. My case for immortality? Simple. I want it all.  I want the Almasy and the Uni shot and the Uni win at Colossus and the ticker tape parade and the last golden ride of a champion. Maybe you do too. If you think you want it more than that? More than me? Show me.