Old Bastard in the Mirror

Back in October. “Happy birthday, Old Fart!!” Ami’s gleeful toast caused a rise from the party at Chateau de Elliott-Troy. The usual suspects raised their glasses from their respective seats in the front yard. Lindsay with a bourbon in hand, Henry with the same. Kaz with a beer. Dametreyus with a glass of red. Ami had gone all out with the decorations: floating cardboard cut-outs of the Ol’ Silver Fox’s head plastered all over the walls and lawn, those obnoxious silver and gold balloons of the number 54, and a projector screen playing a highlight compilation of Wade getting the absolute shit beat out of him in the ReVolution era. He sipped his bourbon and took the opportunity to check the grill, throwing up a loving middle finger while his friends and loved ones clapped and cheered at the expense of his age. Grinning behind his beard as he opened the grill, Wade set down his drink and replaced it with a pair of tongs, flipping a collection of rib-eye steaks. And while he’d never openly share his appreciation for his small, close-knit collection of friends and family, his heart was indeed very full. And at that moment, very… tight. A little too tight. He coughed and beat his chest against his sternum. Tighter. Sharper. Another heavy fist against his broad chest. Another coughing fit. “Sonnuva bitch,” he forced under his breath. “Hey.” He looked over his shoulder, clutching and thumping his chest, to see his Queen step around the corner. “Babe, are you okay?” “I’m fine,” he lied. “Just somethin’ in my…” Another pause, and another cough. “...somethin’ in my…” “Sit down. Right fucking now.” Lindsay pulled him forcefully from the grill and sat him down on a patio chair nearby. “Dam!” she called. “DAM! Get over here! Right NOW!” Wade breathed heavily and quickly through his nose — short, hard inhales and exhales — as Dam, with friends and family in tow, thundered over to attend to his friend. The ‘Bama Bruiser. The toughest son of a bitch in PRIME.

Back ‘round Halloween. “Mr. Elliott? Ms. Troy?” Wade sat up straight on the edge of the examination table. Lindsay inched to the edge of her seat nearby. The Bad Dog reached down, finding her hand, as a young African-American woman, hair pulled back in a bun, closed the door behind her. “What’s th’ word?” Wade asked, squeezing his wife’s hand, a mild frustration in his tone. Lindsay squeezed back — a signal to calm down. “The word,” Dr. Alicia Stevenson said, pulling her chair over to the couple, “is that you should be very thankful to your wife for dragging you over here, Mr. Elliott.” Wade agreed with the lift of his eyebrows and glanced to Lindsay with a heavy sigh. “So, what are we looking at?” asked the Queen, shaking curls from her face. “What we’re possibly looking at,” said Dr. Stevenson, flipping through her charts, “is a case of costochondritis. Which is essentially inflammation of the cartilage in your rib cage. It can feel like a heart attack, and can be a little scary, but overall is harmless.” Wade and Lindsay shared a collective sigh of relief, until the doctor interrupted. “All that said…” Wade pinched his eyes shut. Lindsay clenched her jaw. “...Wade, your health history is something we need to keep an eye on.” “Alright,” he exclaimed, with a tinge of relief. “What’bout it?” “You shared that you smoked for twenty-five years?” “Sure,” he confirmed. “And that you drink regularly?” “A bourbon or two most nights, but I ain’t paintin’ th’ town red or anythin’.” “And your diet? Potatoes and red meat?” “Locally raised! Th’ hell’s wrong with that?” “Look,” said Stevenson, pulling her glasses from her face and leaning in. “Wade, you just turned fifty-four years old. You spent years battering your body. And while overall you’re a resilient man for your age, these factors will only continue to take their toll as the years go on. And that sharpness in your chest? That might be something far more concerning if you don’t take action now.” The doctor allowed them a moment. Lindsay reached up to place a hand against her husband’s back, and he curled his lips behind his grayed beard. “Well,” asked Wade, shrugging his shoulders, “what’s th’ plan?” “The plan,” said Dr. Stevenson, “is to hydrate, eat more green things, and exercise: more water, less whiskey. More spinach, less steak. And start working out regularly. Don’t wait for that one match you have every couple months.” Basic, agreeable news for most. Difficult, and troublesome news for the Bad Dog. Lindsay could sense his trepidation, and as with most things concerning a man such as Wade Elliott, she squeezed his hand to redirect his frustration. Wade felt the squeeze, took a breath through his nose, and offered a small smile to the doctor. “I’ll do my best.”

A Day’r’Two After ReV 79. In the quiet of late evening, Wade tip-toed his way from their bed and flicked on the lights to the master bathroom. He would never be entirely comfortable with the perfectly folded and fluffy towels, or the well-placed tile in the shower and across the bathroom floor, but he didn’t mind it either. Treading carefully, lest he wake his Queen, he squared up to his side of the sink, drawing a paw across his face. He turned his sharp, yet tired blue eyes to the same ones staring back in the mirror. God, he looked old. Wade smoothed his grayed beard before pulling his t-shirt over his head, tossing it to the bathroom floor. He scanned his own aging body: a little less muscle. A little more weight in the belly. And still so many fuckin’ scars — all over his chest, his arms, the crescent over his left eye. He noted how much his hair had continued to gray. How much darker the skin around his eyes had become. How far the crow’s feet had grown. He never thought he would hate getting older. Not this much. Lucky for him, he had a fantastic distraction nearby to keep him from spiraling. “Checking yourself out, Old Man?” the Queen cooed, peeking through the doorway, pajama pants and bra on. Wade chuckled. “Ain’t much to check out these days,” he said, resting his rough hands against the sink. “Bullshit,” the Queen declared, traipsing across the tile and wrapping her arms around her husband’s waist from behind, resting her curls against the back of his neck. He gripped both her hands in one of his own, eyes closed and feeling the warmth of her body against his own. “How’s your chest?” she asked, words muffled as she kissed at his collarbone. “Good ‘nuff, I guess,” he replied, lacing his fingers with hers. “You took your prescriptions, right?” “‘Course I did.” “Did you?” “‘Promise I did.” “Good.” She squeezed him tighter. He squeezed her hand in the same fashion. They stood there, under the light of the bathroom bulbs, shifting their feet, each watching the other through the mirror. “I don’t think this match is a good idea,” he said quietly. Lindsay pulled her head away. “Why’s that?” she asked, squinting at her husband. “Shit, Lindsay,” he said, scowling. “Lookit all these scars. Lookit all th’ shit I’ve done. I almost had a heart attack flippin’ steaks fer fucks sake…” “It wasn’t a heart attack,” she assured, pressing a cheek against his neck. “Your doctor told you so.” “Yeah, I know it,” he agreed, turning in her arms to face her, hands resting on her hips. “It’s just… these Intense matches…” “They’re your sweet spot,” she offered, pushing her fingers over his ears, smoothing the gray locks he’d earned. “It’s where you shine.” “I know it,” he replied. “But this cartoon character. Fred Dick?” Wade looked over his shoulder, back into the mirror. “How th’ hell will this old bastard hold his own ‘gainst a circus freak like Fred?” Lindsay leaned in and kissed her husband softly with a smile. “You’ve seen worse. Remember Cozen? Remember falling off that ladder with Tyler? That match with Hessian at the end?” She pushed her hands through his hair, her hazel eyes looking deep into his blues. “How could a Street Cat scare a Bad Dog?” He laughed through his nose and wrapped an arm around her neck, pulling her in close. “What if I win,” he asked, whispering into her ear. “Then I’ll have’t’ defend the damn thing. How many’ve them matches have I got ‘fore it kills me, Lindsay?” “We’re not going to think about that,” she stated flatly. “If it gets to that point, we pull back. But I’d rather see you out there, doing it, than drinking yourself to death on our leather couch. Besides…” She kissed him again, hands playing with his silvered hair, before pulling away with a smile. “...that’s your belt. You deserve to carry it again.” He snorted, resting his head on the top of hers. “Funny that they always attach that belt t’ me. It was th’ only one I won, an’ only had it fer a minute. You remember who took it from me?” The Queen nodded and pressed her head against his chest. “Craig,” she said. “Ol’ Red Eyes,” he confirmed, rocking her in his arms. “Caught me good with that boot’ve his back in ‘08. Hated t’ admit it back then.” The two held each other in that bathroom for a while, rocking back and forth. “Shit, I’m gonna miss ‘im,” said Wade. “You don’t have to hold it forever…” said the Queen, pulling away and looking deep into her husband’s eyes. “...but maybe just one more time.” With a smile behind his beard, he kissed her forehead and pulled her in tight. “One more time.”

It’s a young man’s game, Fred. There ain’t many exceptions. Save me. An’ Big Red. An’ the Intense Title? Even less so. Son, I don’t know how much more’ve these I got in me. I ran that track a long god damn time ago. Fer all the ass I whipped, I got my own beat twice over. An’ it’s taken a toll. I’m gettin’ tired, Fred. An’ I’ve got a lot more t’ think ‘bout than just my own god-damn self. But. I think I’ve got one’r’ two more left. An’ if I gotta carry that belt one more fuckin’ time? Guess I’ll do what I gotta do. Just go easy on this old sonnuva bitch. You do that… …an’ maybe I’ll put that Sketti Bucket over after all.