I Just Can't Connect

The steak is so rare I can practically smell the blood. 

A two-pronged fork skewers the meat. A serrated blade carves into it.

He eats with an appetite more belonging to an animal than a man, shoveling the dripping cut into his maw with a hungry, feral rapacity

I’m there facing him from across the table, the both of us sitting on the floor of a glass cube suspended in aether. 

Our translucent, levitating cell hovers a few feet over the tranquil surface of an endless black ocean. It shimmers in the light of a pale yellow moon, peeking through a small aperture high up within a maelstrom of stormclouds that block out the sky.

The surrealness of the situation demands a question of me.

Is this another indigestion-induced hallucinatory experience?

My host shrugs. He doesn’t bother looking up from the plate as he addresses me. The response is a guttural snarl

“Call it what you will, Face.”

Speaking of… his face captures my interest.

Being that it’s also mine.

He is, in every effect, my doppleganger. Only unkempt and unshaven. And with skin decorated by scars instead of ink. 

I ask who he is.

It’s an honest question. Is he a dark reflection of my inner psyche? An evil version of me from an alternate reality? My long lost twin? An actual clone? A pod person?

Given the things I’ve experienced these past couple years in the world of professional wrestling, he could reasonably be any one of these things.

He finally looks up to me when he answers.

“I’m the beast on your back.”

He smiles.

As is pretty well known, I myself don’t smile much on a regular basis. But when I do, it sure as hell doesn’t look like this. 

Too wide to be genuine. Too raw to be forced. Cheshire madness, in two rows of bloodstained teeth.

“I’m the hunger that drives you. The inner voice that pushes you ever onward and upward. The second wind that puts you back on your feet and keeps you in the fight. The source of power that keeps you going, and going, and going, and going, like the toy machine rabbit you are. The reason why you lie awake at night, in your warm, soft bed, and you stare at the ceiling, wishing you were in the ring. The only place where you actually feel alive.”

He tilts his head back, rearing his bestial grin to the moon above.

“I am the inner ROAR of ferocity that drowns out the flaccid whispers of your conscience. The animalistic RAGE that overwhelms you when you lock horns with fellow warriors. The killer instinct that gives you any credence to call yourself an ‘apex’ in anything.”

He cuts off another piece of the steak and shoves it into his mouth. Red juices drip freely from his lips as he speaks while chewing.

“And we’ve had a good thing going, you and I. You do your part in the light, making speeches and gladhanding the weak and normal. And I hold up my end in the dark, pulling the levers that make the magic work. But lately, Face, you’ve been saying things that have me a bit concerned. Hence the reason I’ve pulled the curtain aside and arranged this little meeting of ours.”

I now notice another key physical difference between us.

His eyes are green. Reptilian.

Goddamn, I need to lay off the hotwings…

“I evidently need to remind you of what you really are. Because what you are not, and never were, is that empty-headed pup’s ‘friend’.”

He points to me using the rust-colored knife in his hand.

“You don’t have friends, Face. It’s not in your nature. Because you don’t know how to connect with the regular people. The crux of your existence is, and always has been, serving yourself. The day your father went into the earth was the day you signed a pact to cut yourself off from the meager trappings of mankind and embrace the solitary eminence of godhood.”

He taps his plate with his fork.

“And you should be grateful for it. The rest of humanity is drek. Beneath you. And because of you, my plate is never empty...”

Another cut. Another bite.

“I’m telling you this to remind you that the pup was always meant to be a means to an end. Nothing less. Comedic relief, to help you connect to an audience of simpletons with short attention spans who can’t see the art of violence as anything other than a fucking cartoon. So do the both of us a favor, and drop the fake-ass touchy-feely act. ”

The unnatural smile fades.

“Scott Hunter does not matter. Vae Victis does not matter. PRIME does not matter. That cheap strip of fake leather and gold they’ve saddled you with does not matter. That self-indulgent wet dream of a wrestling school doesn’t matter. Your dipshit cousin, his deadbeat father, their friend the Ad Man… they do not matter. Your dear dead daddy. Your name. The ‘honor and prestige’ of the Kuroyama name. Absolutely NONE of that shit matters to you.”

I want to reject this.

I really, really want to.

But it’s me saying these things.

Now I wonder… what about Ami?

“Your so-called ‘Tamer?’ Simp and submit to her all you like, Face; her power of us is all but imaginary. No, she doesn’t matter either. A part of you already knows that what she feels for you isn’t genuine. She clings to you because you are successful. You cling to her because you believe companionship will change what you really are. But you can’t change, Face. You already know this, or I wouldn’t be telling it to you.”

I…

…I don’t think I want to be a part of this conversation anymore.

“So let’s prevent future conversations, yeah? And when it comes time for me to take over, try to keep these namby-pampy sentimental feelings of yours under wraps. Do what needs to be done. And if the pup won’t come to heel?”

He drew the blade across his neck.

“Snap the fucker’s neck. And then you can cry all the crocodile tears you want after the fact. Understood?”

I don’t…

“Attaboy… be on your way now.”

The floor fades.

Gravity takes hold.

I sink into the black ocean, becoming one with the void…

DAY 164 This spirit quest could have been an e-mail.

“Kerry? Kerry…”

Ah, that old feeling.

Swimming back up from the black.

The head throbbing. The ringing ears. The fuzzy vision. The lurch of nausea. All the things the brain does after rebooting from a hard reset.

In the history of professional fighting, there hasn’t been anyone who has grown familiar with the sensation of waking up on the canvas. And while it had been some time for Kerry Kuroyama. But he took the hard climb back to consciousness like relearning how to ride a bicycle.

Slowly, he sat himself up and put a hand to his head. A set of hands on his arm and shoulder kept him steady.

“Easy now…”

Rocko’s voice, from beside him. Gentle and restrained.

A second, more distant voice was much less forgiving.

“You are wasting my time, koutavi.”

Ioanna Drakos extended the statement with a string of curses in Greek.

The last thing Kerry remembered was being down on the canvas with her, arms and legs entangled in a fierce struggle. Then, without warning, she went around to his back, wrapped an arm around his neck, and…

…

And brought their sparring session to an early end, so it seemed.

As his vision came into focus, he saw that she had quit the practice ring and plucked her coat from the bench.

“You’re leaving?!” uttered Rocko in surprise.

One arm was in the sleeve of her coat. The other waved toward the practice ring.

“How can a smith be expected to temper a weapon when the steel is as soft as butter?!” she bellowed angrily. “He is worthless in this state…”

Sitting on the mat, Kerry caught her embittered glare.

“Call me when you’re ready to fight…”

She turned, heading for the exit.

Kerry attempted to rise to his feet, but his legs felt like rubber. Slinging his arm over his shoulders, Rocko did most of the heavy lifting.

“I got you…” he said tenderly.

As a teacher, the retired wrestler always employed a soft, fatherly tone with his students. It often grated at Kerry, who preferred a bit more aggression in his instruction. Now, however, the tender voice of his former trainer was a welcome comfort.

“Maybe you should take it easy for the rest of the day,” Rocko advised. “Try and clear your head for tomorrow. Should I reach out to Ami to pick you up?”

Kerry shook his head. “She’s in Japan… with Kaz and Cece.”

And afterward, would be home in Vegas “for a wee bit”, according to the text. Which could have meant any number of things. Kerry saw it as her way of giving him space to work through his… through whatever the hell it was he was working through.

Or maybe there was more to it, and he just wasn’t able to confront that reality quite yet.

Maybe the beast was right.

Rocko Daymon studied his former (current again, maybe?) pupil a moment longer, then shook his head.

“You alright? You’re as white as a sheet…”

Kerry’s body continued to quiver. He’d had his bell rung plenty of times, but not quite like this.

In his mind’s eye, the memory of those reptilian green eyes continued to burn in the dark.

“…goddamn hotwings.”

DAY 166 ENGLISH, motherfucker! Do you speak it?!

“Then he says, ‘You have to ruin them? You have to?’ Like, YES, motherfucker, I HAVE TO! That’s what being a CHAMPION is about!”

Kerry’s fist pounded the table for added emphasis.

Glasses trembled, but no alcohol was spilled.

“Here I am, pouring out my heart and soul, trying to tell this guy that I’m conflicted over this match of ours…” he went on. “And yet somehow, he misconstrues it into ‘I have to knock you down a peg’. What in the fuck am I supposed to say to that?”

From their end of the booth, his cousin, Zack Daymon, and tag partner, Leo Burnett, stared back in silence.

Around the three of them, the Vue Lounge hummed with color and life. Their usual weekend haunt, so long as the Trash weren’t sulking about.

But here was Kerry, yelling to be heard over the incessantly bumping club music, bringing down the vibes.

“Like, how do you go from point A to fuckin’ TWELVE?!” he rambled. “Am I not wording it properly?! Is there something I’m missing!? I’m in HELL over here, yet somehow, I’M the bad guy!”

Zack and Leo exchanged glances. They looked more irritated than concerned.

Their expressions added to Kerry’s ire. Here he was, trying to explain his side of the situation (albeit six or seven Suntorys into the evening), and getting nothing but dubious looks from those he thought he could confide in.

“...I mean, am I wrong here?”

The tandem shook their heads. Not in denial, but disappointment.

“Man…” said Burnett. “All we asked is if you could take on more classes at the school.”

“And you jump into some weird rant about Scott,” added his cousin, shaking his head. “For fuck’s sake, man, not everything’s about YOU, you know?”

Flush-faced, Kerry deflated in his seat, mentally groping for an excuse.

“...yeah, I know,” he said. “It’s just… hotwings, you know?”

DAY 168 Try as I may, I just can’t connect.

Kerry Park.

Famous for having one of the best views of the city.

Kuroyama felt a strange connection to the place that bore his namesake. According to family lore, it was the place where his mother broke the news, and his father popped the question. As it was, he often came to this place to look over the city and reflect in solitude.

But here he was, trying to think while actively unsure if his own thoughts could be trusted.

“Hey, stranger…”

Kerry looked toward the familiar voice.

“Ami?”

The Merry Mischief Maker was there, in the flesh, cute as a button in her royal purple parka.

Kerry took a moment to scan his surroundings, as though unsure if he was dreaming.

“Been a minute,” she said.

“Yeah…” he said in agreement. “I missed you.”

“I bet,” she said with a grin, giving his nose an affectionate boop. “I mighta also missed your big, dumb face a lil’ bit.”

And with that, she glomped onto him, throwing her arms around his neck and greeting him with a kiss that felt damn great after being without it for a week and some change.

“How have you been?” she asked, breaking the ice. “Io told me some things…”

Kerry groaned.

“She’s pissed that I’m still stuck in my head,” he said. “I’m pretty pissed too. Can’t focus on this match for the life of me…”

“Seriously, Ker, I’m beginning to worry about you.”

He shook his head. “I know it’s not an ideal spot to be in before a title defense…”

Her fist slugged his shoulder.

“I’m not talking about the title, you dingus!” she chided. “I’m talking about you. Spend enough time stuck in your head, you’re liable to go crazy.”

Kerry didn’t know how to tell her that he was beginning to suspect he was already there.

“What were you supposed to gain from this ‘separate training’ thing, exactly?”

Kerry shrugged.

“I don’t know… made sense at the time. Practice long enough with someone, you get a sense of their strengths and weaknesses. You pick up on their tells. The sort of things you’d want to keep hidden from an opponent.”

Ami threw him a skeptical glare.

“Okay but, Ker… this is Scott we're talking about,” she reasoned. “Does he strike you as the kind of guy who’d take advantage of any of those things?”

“Scott? No. Me, on the other hand…?”

He trailed off and shook his head.

“I honestly don’t know what’s going to happen when that bell rings. I tell myself I want exactly what Scott wants: a clean, friendly match. No bad blood, no frills, no bullshit. But lately… I’ve been having doubts that I can hold myself to that.”

He looked to Ami, who looked back with concern.

“This match… Scott and I are going to push each other’s limits. But I also know what I become when I get pushed to that place. During those pivotal moments, in the long stretch… that’s where my conscience checks out, and… something else takes over. Something that might just be willing to hurt him, if it meant keeping the title.”

He unconsciously bit his lower lip, steeling himself as a familiar wave of lingering uncertainty swept over him.

“And ever since he suggested that maybe, deep down, I see him as being beneath me… I’ve begun to doubt who I really am. I want to say that’s not the case, but the more I think about it, the more I begin hearing my inner voice tell me… maybe he’s right?”

After a moment, Ami tsked in disappointment.

“Sounds to me like your inner voice is full of shit,” she said.” Fortunately for you, you have an outer voice to keep it in check.”

“What do you mean by outer--”

Before he could get the question out, she had a hold of his earlobe and pulled him close to her lips.

“HEY, ASSHOLE!!” she bellowed into his ear. “I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE, so LISTEN UP!”

The volume left Kerry’s head ringing like a bell.

“You better stop feeding my sweet, loyal, impressionable Ker-Bear these dipshit ideas and remember that YOU WORK FOR HIM, or so help me Hoyt, I will FANTASTIC VOYAGE my way in there and KICK YOUR ASS MYSELF!”

She released her vice-like grip on his ear. Kerry straightened up holding his temples.

Ami beamed, put her arms behind her back, and rocked on her heels, pleased with herself.

“Better?”

He blinked at her in astonishment.

“...are you a wizard?”

“Bet your ass I am!” she said, poking his chest. “Now it's your turn to listen…”

She piefaced him.

Kerry obligingly fell to the ground, and rolled as if hit by a train.

“First, you're gonna go home, and get a full night's rest!” she said, in a commanding voice. “Then in the morning, you're gonna call up Io, and tell her you’re sorry for wasting her time! Then you're gonna go right down to that dipshit-riddled school of yours, you're gonna git surrious, and you're gonna whip your sweet ass in the best shape it's ever been in!”

Kerry pushed himself up to his hands and knees, until the toe of Ami's boot tapped his backside, sending him somersaulting forward into another roll.

She chased after him, enthusiastically shaking her fists overhead.

“Then at Colossus, you're gonna wrestle the best match of your career!” she continued. “One of the best Five Star matches in PRIME history, in fact! The kind that makes people say, 'Don WHO-nters?’ And when all is said and done, regardless of who ends up holding up that title, the two of you are gonna shake hands, bro-hug it out, and go back to being the VVingmen everyone knows and loves!”

He finally flopped over onto his back. Looking down at him, she put her hands on her hips.

“Am I making myself clear?”

In a flash, he was on his feet.

“Crystal.”

Ami grinned.

“Attaboy,” she said, lightly punching his shoulder. “Also, I’m cooking tonight. What are you hungry for?”

The answer came without a moment’s thought.

“STEAK.”

DAY 169 You can’t spell ‘Colossus’ without ‘loss’.

“Hey, Scott…”

Cobain is all they talk about. But you ask any tried and true Seattleite who really revolutionized rock and roll, only one name will come up.

Hendrix.

“Have I ever told you why I keep track of the days I’ve been champion?”

I’m in the lounge at the school. “Little Wing” is playing over the turntable.

My cousin prepared a specially edited compilation of Scott Hunter’s highlights in PRIME.

I skip the matches, in favor of watching the segments.

“One year ago, I was in the same place you’re in now.

“A challenger, stepping up to a champion. Looking to grasp my moment of ascension.

“Or so it seemed, at the time.”

I watch as Scott dumps an ice skate and a bunch of rocks into my lap. Annoyed me at the time, but it seems so quaint when I look back on it now.

“But it wasn’t meant to be.

“And frankly, buddy… I don’t think I ever got over it.”

I watch as Scott and I don cheap leisure suits and fake mustaches and drive around the city like pretend cops, seeking out outlaw mudshow bullshit to break up.

“Even though I moved on and eventually won that belt, that match still lives rent free in my head as the greatest failure of my career.

“So I count the days… because I’ll never be able to even the score with the man that beat me. Because in my mind, the only way I can beat him is by breaking the record he set.”

I watch as Scott waves a towel while walking me to the ring for another Alias Title defense.

“Yeah… sounds pretty stupid, I’m sure.

“But I guess my problem is that I’ve spent too much time pretending to be sensible, when I don’t know a damn thing about it.”

I watch as Scott bestows me with the gift of life known as Kerry Koalayama.

“I realize now that I have a tendency to mentally manufacture conflicts in the absence of actual opposition.

“Because, for whatever reason, I do my best work when there’s something to overcome. A voice to silence. A point to prove wrong.

“But I’ll admit, most of the time… I’m swinging at shadows.”

I watch as Scott and I do the stock interview with Simon, usually ending with him punching out the interviewer.

“Truth is, buddy… I don’t know how to connect with other people, let alone how to be a decent friend.

“There’s no point in either of us saying ‘let the best man win’. As far as I’m concerned, you won that contest long ago.”

I watch as Scott and I clasp hands and flex in a way that would make Dutch and Dillon weep.

“I don’t know how this match will end, buddy…

“But regardless of how it plays out, rest assured that I’ll still commit myself to being your friend.

“And no matter what anyone or anything says, Scott… I want you to know one thing.”

I watch as Scott and I stare at each other in the ring, uncertain as to where things stand between us.

“You MATTER to me.

“Always, and forever.”