Pancakes

Great. Jiles, Kael, the former tag team champion and the guy that beat me.

Thanks Brando.

“Hey buddy, wanna come get involved in ALL my bullshit?”

Fuck me. At least it came with this stay at this resort. This hammock, this hammock slams. I used your credit card to get butler service, and I bribed a guy for this hammock. These dudes are bringing me drinks and food on a schedule Brand-o.

I haven’t moved in nine hours. They bring me drinks, I watch the waves. People walk by, I drink a fruity drink out of a coconut. I’ve been sitting here just wondering how all of this pertains to me and what I did to be involved in this shitfest?

You just spiked Jiles’ head in the main event of ReVival and cost him the Universal Championship. He wants to kill you with a car. He’s prolly paying someone right now to line you up and do a hit on you. Gamble gave him some guys number with a russian mob hit team. Who knows how deep this all goes Brando.

This is your bullshit.

I handle the normal bullshit. Over here in Clay land we do the wrassles and beat up the deviants and miscreants. We stay away from the psychotic murderers and killers. And when we pick up that big dub over a rival, we know that we should stay away for a bit.

We’re not fucking stupid.

Daytona probably wants to kill me. Max would kill his own mother. Gamble is a miserable cheat, and Jiles. Fucking Jiles.

YOU COST HIM THE UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP.

Sure, you did the right thing and stopped a miserable scenario from occurring.

But I didn’t do that. I didn’t make that choice. I stayed on the sideline. No need. Cecilworth had it under control. Jiles was done for. Cecilworth would have just sprung up and choked him out like the T1000, and everything would have been fine with the world.

Then, maybe Jiles isn’t trying to sneak a fucking shank in his boot. I bet he sharpened the ends of the sunglasses. Remind me to have the ref check them. This fucking scoundrel, teaming up with these other scoundrels.

“Mr. Byrd,” his personal server greets him and hands him a plate of these little mini tacos. Triangle shaped, they have the best flavor. And another margarita. Because why not have a seventh? It’s only 2? Who cares? He might be dead here in a few days anyway. He just got the best feeling in the world with his friends and now? He could be dead the next day.

“Thanks!” Clay drunkenly shouts and slurs. He continues staring off into the depths of the tacos, new margarita with the sippy straw and umbrella. He looked at the pile of green he’d paid the lifeguard for. Brandon had paid security to keep the people away and Clay didn’t really give a shit who saw him do what. A lighter sparked, the marijuana smoke wafted. The tacos were delightful little morsels. The food man would be back soon, another delicacy at the ready.

If he was going to die soon, he was going to make sure he got a lot of living in while he could. And well, why not do it here on the beach? Scott was probably off in some siberian prison camp, that Fontaine kid was still wandering around the place with his gold man. Another deep inhale, another exhale.

Who knew what he was up to, little rat.

“Having fun?” RIA asks, she’d been walking up the side of the beach. Lost in her own thoughts.

“Worryin’ ‘bout Scotty and gettin’ stabbed. Ya ain’t resorted ta stabbin’ asses again’, have ya?” The Behemoth slurs. Another giant pull on the joint, before the big man respectfully puts it out in the sand. The world is an ashtray. At least this one is. “Since ya left…”

“I'll still stab someone’s ass if needed. Look… My poor choices, they had nothing to do with anyone but me. I still care, alright?”

“I get it, I do… Just don’t fuckin’ stab me in there. We got enough ta worry ‘bout with Hayesedict Arnlon.” Clay sighs and takes another sip of his margarita. “You wan’t anythin’? HEY! BRING A BEER OVER!”

The small man waiting on Clay scampers back from behind the bar almost instantly.

“Guess I'm having a drink whether I want it or not. Just gimme something cheap. NOT MILLER LITE!”

Lockhart took a seat, her gaze going up and down the Behemoth.

“Soooo…” RIA starts but the Behemoth blurts out the question on the tip of his tongue. He can’t stop himself.

“You trust Hanlon?”

RIA rubs the back of her hair, eyes now on the very sand Clay has been littering.

“We kinda had a moment in LA before getting here. He said he'd have my back. Way I see it, with the shit we're facing? Was gonna have to anyway. But I do feel more comfortable doing so now. Clearly, you don't.”

“Can’t take chances. Max is evil. Jiles would kill his mother to hurt Youngblood. Gamble is a scoundrel. And who knows what kind of lab freakazoid Daytonazilla is? Can’t be unsure about anything.” Clay muses, a cheeseburger makes its way in front of the Monster that he immediately begins to devour.

“Ain't giving me any news I'm unfamiliar with. Outside of the Crumb Cunt, I've had my battles with those dickheads.” She lets her index finger trace lightly in the sand. “Think we need to draw first blood, figuratively or literally. We get them reeling early, they might not have a chance to reach into their bag of bullshit.”

“Strategy… there isn’t strategy here RIA. We just gotta survive. Just gotta live.”

The waves crash in the distance.

“Survive… Doesn't fuckin' stop, does it?” Tired. The way her voice drops, the waver in it. “I guess it could be worse. Fuckin’ strap in and ride, right?”

“Always.”

—-----------------------

RIA had walked away hours ago, but Clay stayed put. Even through a small storm. It didn’t matter. This was perfection. The ocean breeze, this hammock. Endless booze and drugs. Youngblood had approached Clay with the bag, mostly to see if he was okay with the idea. It had sounded like a good plan to him, but Byrd wasn’t always the most social. Nothing was easy with Byrd. He was borderline insane, and when you added narcotics that he immediately took because he was an inordinate amount of substances deep, and with a butler bringing him endless booze and food. The pancakes had shocked him, and when Byrd stabbed a fork into one and dove at Youngblood, he was absolutely shocked.

“Eat it.”

“NO!” Brandon Youngblood roars, the pancake is inches from his mouth. The Behemoth sits atop him, straddling his torso in the sand. Brandon wiggles his hands at the giant fork wielding mad man. Clay cackles as he lets the earth swallow him by falling face first into the sand. This all makes complete sense. The very sandy pancake piece is going to be eaten by a seagull shortly. But that sticky spot will be weird for a bit.

Yep. Real weird.

“Just admit it, you son of a bitch.” Byrd huffs out in between labored breaths. His eyes were wide, and the cool sand felt good against his warm skin. The taste of stale whiskey sat in the back of his uncomfortably dry throat.

“You’re fucking insane…” Youngblood mumbles, the beach fire crackles in the distance. The colors dance and the potential for warmth calls the pariah in like a moth. The curated loose beach sand runs through his fingers and he slips into the sand as he tries to make his way up.

“The pancake is better than the waffle. Just fucking say it. It’s warm, it’s fluffy, it’s wonderful.”

“YEAH IT’S GREAT UNTIL THE SYRUP SOAKS THROUGH!” he roars, his eyes frantic. “Then it’s just a sad lump of soggy shit! And it don’t take long to get to that state either!” Spittle flies from his maw. “Pancake got no STRUCTURE! Got no BACKBONE! IT’S WEAK! IT’S WEAK IN THE FACE OF THE SYRUP AND THE BUTTER!”

“Don’t you dare call the pancake a weak breakfast pastry.” Clay throws his arm in the air and waggles his finger a little.

“Now the strength of the waffle…”

“EAT THIS SANDY PASTRY” the now sand coated syrup engulfed piece of pancake is airborne. A proton torpedo looking for the face of Youngblood’s aptly shaped deathstar of a brainbox. The sandy pastry flips and jostles through the air, it’s a prime Wakefield knuckleball. The reaction causes Youngblood to flip onto his back like a crab, looking for the projectile. His eyes scan the horizon.

SPLAT

“Oh, fuckin’ gross…” Brandon tried to zig, the flipping pastry zagged, it was a disaster. He could taste the sand, the sticky syrup trapped in his beard as the pastry rolled down off his mouth and onto his chest. Clay very slowly makes his way to his feet. Twelve hours straight of eating, drinking, and now a small bit of some luxury mdma. Drugs terrified the big man, and the paranoia he was experiencing was clearly the cause of this outburst. What did Hayes ‘Benedict Arnold’ Hanlon really intend to do in this match?

Why was he even fucking here? Where was here? Why was here? Who was here? What’s on first?

“You did this!” A small whiskey stumble, a drink appeared into Clay’s left hand. Has it always been there? Brandon slowly positions himself on one arm and reaches up to grab the piece of pancake off of his chest. The Tower wobbles, and down he goes.

“Scotty and I beat Daytonando Diamondtoya and Robbie like a month ago…” Clay went towards the direction of the fire, mostly because that was the direction Youngblood had initially decided to head, and Clay hadn’t left the hammock for the last seven hours. “He ain’t real happy with me. And don’t get me started with Kael. That fuckin’ psycho will actually kill someone.”

“Callin’ in a fuckin’ favor like this, at a time like this. I’m a champion for christ sakes Brando. I got gold, I got money, I got friends. And here comes the good times ruiner. I’M NOT IN A DEATH MATCH FOR ONCE. NOBODY WANTS TO STAB ME WITH AN ACTUAL KNIFE ON NIGHT ONE, FOR ONCE!” The Behemoth roars into the Acapulca night sky. Someone on resort security had probably heard, but through a series of bribes of people with far too much money. The rules were pretty lax.

“Come wrestle Max Kael, Daytonaroonie, and the only person to beat you in singles competition, the Alias champion, Tony Gamble. Oh, and your good buddy who I am in a forever blood feud with Cancer Jiles.” Clay stumbles forward, his shirtless sweat drenched torso glistening in the Acupolco moonlight.

“He’ll do anything to beat you. Just you, not me. We get along. Very good understanding, he and I. We just don’t fuck with each other. It’s easier. It’s like a fucking truce Brandon. Imagine Batman and Joker cut a deal. That’s what we did. It’s great. It’s casual. He’s gonna cheat, I’m gonna club him, it’s easy. It’s an understanding. But this. This is some Jiles with a fork shit.” Byrd’s slurring, but the drink makes it to his lips again.

“You’re fucking kidding me…” Brandon laughs, the euphoric feeling mixed with Clay’s paranoia isn’t exactly the best solution. Brandon ponders if it’s a PH thing or an acidity issue for a moment before continuing. “I think you’re being a chickenshit. You said you’d have my back, you said you’d go through hell with me. So, that was all bullshit?”

“No, it wasn’t all bullshit. But you know, ya could have picked a better fucking time.” The Behemoth sighed and kneeled down by the fire. “With Benedict Arnold in our corner? Ya remember what he did, right? Like, it’s way worse than that time FLAMBERGE pulled the rope on you. Way worse than when Jiles superkicked Coral.”

“Who’s to say he doesn’t just sign up with Jiles or Max or the whoresmen by killing us?” Another gulp of the liquid, and another drunken stumble back towards the fire.

“He won’t” Brandon was sure, he had to be.

“Why not?” Clay wasn’t. He watched that surgical betrayal on a loop for a month to work him up to fight Hayes Hanlon once. Loyalty, it needed to be there. Trust, it was the only way to survive.

“Jiles hates him just as much as he hates me. If he had a chance to end my career or Hayes’, he might pick Hanlon’s.” Clay stops in his tracks and turns to a now stumbling Youngblood. He doesn’t exactly remember seeing Brandon get up, but he’s upright. That’s nice.

“Oh, another blood feud. GREAT.” Clay waves his hand in the direction of the fire. It’s so far away, it feels like they’ve been walking for an hour, and the fire isn’t getting any closer. Clay takes a knee and stares off. A thought, it makes him smile. Clay takes a knee. “I’ll tell you what it takes to get me all in.”

“What? Money? A truck? What do you even enjoy?” Brandon didn’t really give a shit, he’d buy Clay a truck if he broke Jiles’ leg. That was cheap. Easy. HA! He could hear Jiles somewhere in the distance cackling about the depths of Youngblood’s depravity.

“Say pancakes are better than waffles.” Clay waves his hand towards the ocean, he points at something in the distance. It’s a star, it’s pretty bright, shining through the light pollution around the resort.

“Clay…” Youngblood’s feelings were clearly known on this matter, that’s what had started this whole mess of a conversation in the first place. “...Why?”

“I just wanna hear ya say it, ya ain’t gotta mean it. I just wanna hear the words leave yer stupid Canadian lips.” Byrd towers above the tower, a grin hidden beneath his wild unkempt beard. He stumbles closer to Youngblood. A bit of a broken cigar hangs from his mouth. He’s been chewing it, the brown staining the corner of his beard. “Just fuckin’ say it.”

“Pancakes…” Youngblood begins, the world stands still. The waves stop, time freezes. Clay hangs on the word, his fist clenching. If Youngblood was the traitor. He’d kill him here. Right here on this beach. If he’s the one Jiles bribed. It was a trap for Hanlon. Clay was just the cannon fodder dumb enough to be in it. “...are edible.”

“But in no way are they better than waffles, get the fuck out of here with that!” Youngblood’s grin is ear to ear. A giant grin sprawls across The Behemoth’s face. He uncurls his hand and hugs Youngblood.

“Your dead fucking wrong. But you aren’t the mole, Brandon. I’m so glad you aren’t the mole.” Byrd rubs Youngblood’s shoulders a bit uncomfortably for a minute and stumbles his way back towards the cackling fire. Clay holds Youngblood at arms length.

“I shot Max Kael in the face once with a gun.” This was sudden. And unexpected. Youngblood blinks back towards the fire and then at Clay.

“You did what?”

“Yep. Shot him right in the face.” Clay shrugs his shoulders and begins the walk back towards the warmth of the fire.

“Holy shit. And he’s not dead?” Youngblood was astonished. Clay’s fear made a bit more sense.

“Nope.”

Awkward silence. The two men walked and Byrd turned to Youngblood and shrugged.

“Yeah, lemme know when you have any ideas.”

“Uhh…” Another long awkward silence before Clay changes the subject out of nowhere.

“Last time I did this stuff I was awake for three days in Ropongi.”

“Oh…”  This might not have been the best idea.

—---------------------

He’s unkillable. A demon. Some type of alien from the aliens movies. I do not know what I saw that day. I don’t understand it. Nobody should understand it, it shouldn’t be a thing. But it’s a thing. I saw what I saw. Max is evil, but it’s a known evil. Chaotic evil, and most of the time the results are mildly harmless. Or you know, like, I can try to ignore it?

It’s hard to ignore, it is. But when you get snared in the web, you’re in deep. There’s blackmail and dirt, everyone has something on everyone. I can’t help you, nobody can help you. Watching Dawkins go through hell trying to find his family was awful, but what choice was he left with?

He was dealing with an absolutely psychotic madman who would eat his liver. Dawkins is a sane man. Sane men are forced to due insane things when approached with madness. You steer into the skid. Dawkins played a long game, he got his family back, he got a belt. Look at that.

I have a chip in my fucking head because of something that was kind of you?

It’s fine. It’s all fine.

Just a little PIT trauma.

Nothing like it.

Old scars that never heal.

I won’t let you make anymore.

—--------------

Clay stares at the sand underneath his hammock. He’s been idle for days. Brandon wanted the best of him, he wanted him to come for blood. He wanted to hurt them. Clay understood, but he had to weigh that against his own ideals. Jiles had been there for him in the depths of the mine. When times were at their worst, when things were the hardest, a cheery word from another miserable crewmate can keep you going. I can’t hate Jiles. I should, I really should.

Max, that was easy. He rubbed the scar on the side of his head. Of course he’d tried to drink that all away, but having it presented in front of him in this match. And Daytona, he’d just buried that evil. But it wasn’t tucked so far away that he couldn’t reach it.

He just had to motivate himself, and the night he’d just had with these people. The night of absurdness, the crackling fire, chasing Youngblood with a pancake. You shouldn’t have to worry about your survival when you step between the ropes. Brandon’s right. He’s always been right, I’ve just chosen to handle the part that had personally pissed me off. I just fought the portion that made me fucking miserable.

The Behemoth sighed as he watched the orange of the sun rising behind him stretch across the water. The others had left him out here hours ago, Clay could sleep anywhere, he kept handing the guards fist full of Youngblood’s money. He could do whatever he wanted.

“Alright.” Clay didn’t say it to anyone in particular, he just needed to hear it himself. This was this important to Brandon, he needed Clay, he needed all of the Behemoth and the big man decided to oblige that waffle loving fuck. Clay mused as he stared off into the stillness of night, while the daylight continued behind him. “And maybe I’ll kick that phonebook out from under Gamble.”