Post by bad guy™ on Apr 12, 2014 22:24:19 GMT -5
__
4-12-2014: A Hard Truth to Swallow
There is a certain kind of irony about what I am doing. I know you all have thought it was lost on me, but I saw it before any of you. Ever since my coming out party a few years ago against Wayne McGurk, I have made it my mission to protect the WFWF. Even before, I was always in some kind of life or death battle against The Independent Scene, Williams, Reckless, The Survivors…you name it, I had to always fight the bad guys. Maybe it was because I was a good guy. THE good guy. I took on the enemies of the State of WFWF because I was the best fit. I win, I give myself a little parade and move on. I lose, I go down a martyr for the next guy to use as a stepping stone.
I am still standing.
And yet, here I am all of these years later, going around fighting ZMaster, Thunder, Johnny Knight…all in the name of my God, all to rid this holy company from the cancers that ravaged it. Only thereafter do I find out that this body, who has sworn to protect the WFWF from cancer, is being ravaged with cancer itself. Ironic, right?
At first, I thought it was because I was so intertwined with the company, this was God giving me a new test. A challenge to overcome. I thought because my relationship with the WFWF was so symbiotic that because it had cancer, I had to have it myself. We were one. It made sense, at least to me.
But now I am questioning the legitimacy of my own mind, here. Perhaps the WFWF having cancer, me getting cancer…perhaps it is intertwined but not in the way I previously believed. What if this relationship is not a symbiotic one as previously thought, but rather a violently parasitic one?
Maybe Thunder was not the cancer. Maybe ZMaster was not the cancer. Maybe Demon is not the cancer. Maybe the WFWF did not give me cancer.
Maybe I am the cancer.
__
10-2-2007: First Day on the Job
"This is a huge day," he says, not a soul around to listen.
That is how it has been for years for this guy, no one listening. This here is a man calling himself The High Horror. Now, before you begin to ask yourself who would allow their nickname to create the image of Scarecrow from Batman or, more likely, a marijuana induced nightmare is beyond anyone’s comprehension. But in truth, it comes from his size.
A few days ago, this Horror, was called by one of the executives here for the WFWF, a professional wrestling company based out of…somewhere. You see, the WFWF was going through a transitional period, he was told. Some of the names that had made the company great; the Frost’s, Rupert Gee’s, Slayer’s (R.I.P.), they were all leaving. The first generation of WFWF poster boys was retiring. The guys like Obo, Reverend Shadow and Thunder were about to get pushed to the moon.
He needed replacements.
Horror was not exactly ‘established’ in the independent scene of pro wrestling. He was a workhorse, but his in ring skill was bare bones. The executive reminded Horror of this. It did not even tick him off.
"I know he is right."
Horror relied on his strength to get him places. It worked for the most part, being 6’9, 290 pounds would work for you. He was being brought in to be the size replacement for a guy named ZMaster. Every wrestling company needs one big man, Horror fit the bill. They offered him a one year contract, $50,000 and dreams of grandeur and splendors beyond his wildest imagination.
"How could I say no?"
Horror was not someone who dreamed of becoming a wrestler, you see. All of these guys who were being brought in alongside him, it had been their dream since they first saw the likes of Danny Vice, Ducky and DramaQueen on closed circuit television. Horror was just someone trying to make a career out of the only thing his size would allow.
You see, Horror has a rather dark history. His family is almost non-existent at this point, and he is a borderline alcoholic. But this makes for a very interesting dynamic for someone trying to make it big.
"This should work," says Horror, walking into a door to the boiler room of the arena where he will compete for the first time in a WFWF ring tonight.
Part of what makes Horror so green and gives away his lack of knowledge for the business outside of the occasional Hybrid or Odium episode is that he is under the impression that he has to be over the top to survive in this new business. In the Indys, it is ALL about wrestling. Characters are secondary. In the WFWF, you are trying to appeal to the masses much more than ever before. There are millions of people watching every week, and they want to be entertained. Now you know where the wacky name came from. ‘The High Horror.’ Just…wow.
"Ok, testing, recording."
You see, The High Horror is now recording his very first promo for the WFWF. In accordance with the ‘wacky will survive’ mantra he had imbedded in his head, the big man discovered a boiler room and decided he was going to use the pain he has experienced in his real life to his advantage, to allow him to be a dark, devious and brooding fella who would either be a person the fans would love to hate or sympathize with.
After all, how can you not sympathize with a guy whose only home he has ever known is a boiler room in the arena he is only visiting for the first time ever, right?
The promo was rather short. He spoke of his ‘only home’ and how he was supposed to be the tall monster (High Horror, anyone?) that the WFWF was seriously lacking. The actual words spoken, you will be spared. Too painful to be relived.
On this day, a WFWF Hall of Famer was born. The High Horror made his debut in the WFWF. He was never supposed to be a big deal. Clearly, he did not have the talent to do much other than be big and stand there.
But history is written by the victor, and The High Horror defied the odds and began writing quite a bit of WFWF history for himself, and the path to his Final Stand began in a boiler room on a cold day in October.
__
4-6-2014: One Thing We Should Never Have to Do
"There are just some things that people should just never have to do."
If you looked up at the sky, you would think that today is a beautiful day. The sun is shining, trees are starting to bloom. The only cloud in the sky is the dark one hovering over this man. Looks are deceiving. It LOOKS beautiful, but in reality, the cold is nippy. The wind is biting at every inch of exposed skin on a person’s body, chilling them to their very core. Wrapped up in a leather jacket, a pair of gloves, thermals underneath and some steel toed boots, he would look to be warm and comfortable riding down Carson Street on the South Side of Pittsburgh, but looks can be deceiving.
For a Sunday, mid-afternoon, the South Side is relatively quiet. If you were not from here, and you just saw it how it is today, you would just think this is your normal, tiny suburb. Looks can be deceiving. Normally the collegiate culture hub of Pittsburgh, you always see slovenly drunk Pitt, Duquesne, Carlow, Carnegie Mellon, CCAC and Point Park students crawling the streets of East and West Carson, Sarah, back Arlington…let’s just say that you can normally find someone puking in every nook and cranny at all hours of the day. Along with the countless bars, and probably alien abducted college students, the normal church goers are noticeably absent as well. While the culture hub for college students, the South Side is the perfect place for saints and sinners. Going down Carson, you see:
Bar. Church. Bar. Church. Church turned into a bar. Bar used for church services. That is what you get when you have a town formed by Polish and Irish immigrants hundreds of years prior that gets taken over by hipsters looking for a good time after a long day of sleeping through those tedious, $30,000 lectures.
But yet, again, very few people. What makes it more shocking is that there is a Pirates game today. Rubber match against the Cardinals. Normally if you can’t get tickets to the game, you bar hop the South Side and get the same playoff type atmosphere.
Nothing.
Was there some kind of memo he missed? Was it Opposite Day or something? There is not even traffic. A couple of cars here and there, but that is it. It is an almost stark silence, except for the Harley between his legs. He almost feels bad for breaking the rare serenity with the purr of his throttle, but no worries, no one will have to worry about his nuisances much longer.
Turning the bend past the CoGo’s and Iron Glass Bank, the bike starts to decelerate as he arrives at the black eye of Pittsburgh.
To anyone familiar with the city, you would think the black eye is the Hill District, the home of drugs, guns and baby mama drama galore. Come to Station Square some time and see the clientele of some of these joints. You will realize the racist remark just made above is not nearly as bad, and the latter statement is the truth.
He pulls into the lot of the square, cuts the engine and takes off his helmet. As he does so, he hears a loud pop in the distance with no boo birds following. Pirates must have scored.
"Why would he have an office down here, anyways?"
The man makes a good point. A very ratty looking place indeed. A Hooters, a few dungy restaurants and then there is a prestine little office attached to the complex that just does not belong. The sign on the door reads ‘William Turnman: Estate, Inheretance.’
You see, this man is not riding into Station Square to have a good time. He is here to do one of the two things a man should never have to do.
One of the things a man should never have to do: Write up his last will, knowing full well not that his death is years away, but that he is close to his own deathbed.
The other?
__
9-18-2001: The Main Thing A Man Should Never Have to Do
Today marks one of the saddest days in our nation’s history. For the last seven days, the world has been enamored with the events that transpired that fateful morning, the morning thousands of people lost their lives. The morning the United States of America changed forever. The darkest day in this nation’s history. Now, a week later, those who died that fateful eleventh day of September, the bodies that have actually been able to be removed from the rubble of those Twin Towers and been identified, and in memoriam of those who lost their lives just two counties East of this particular place when the plane went down.
Amid the anger and outrage at those who performed these heinous acts, those who feel as if we should declare war upon every Middle Eastern country, just to be sure we get the right ones; forgotten are those who are grieving for more than their nationalistic pride which was shattered on September eleventh. Everyone feels for the families, but they never take into account the person who actually died. What were they? Did it really matter? They treat the dead as if they are one collective unit, when each person was someone. They were LOVED by someone. A husband, a wife. A friend, a brother.
A child.
On this day, hundreds of children are being buried all across the United States. Most of these children were not actually young children, mind you. They were adults who lived their own lives, but they had mothers and fathers who were grieving a loss that should NEVER have to be felt.
We are expected to bury our parents.
The other thing a man should never have to do is bury his child.
And among those grieving for the souls lost, we find ourselves at a small cemetery on the outskirts of Pittsburgh. The child of someone is being buried today. However, despite the freshness of these despicable acts in the minds of everyone, the child being buried here today had nothing to do with 9-11. In fact, she died on 9-13. But the point is, with all of this sadness surrounding the entire country, life still went on. We like to think that the world stopped turning for those few days, but that is far from what happened. People still went to work, they still did what they had to do to survive. Maybe they just hugged someone a little tighter those nights.
"But proof that life still goes on is that we are here, today, honoring the life of someone taken from us too soon, but after the fact. Let us not be remiss to pray for the lost, but life continued after last week, and proof of it in the senselessness that occurred just a few days later that took this child from us."
The minister speaks with passion most have never seen from a preacher man. Almost everyone has been to a funeral. But for anyone who has been to the funeral of a child knows that the atmosphere surrounding it is incredibly worse than anything anyone can imagine. The fervor from the minister shows that. And this child was not taken from this world by some disease. By a sickness that ravaged her poor body. No, instead this child was taken from this world by an act of senseless violence that could have been prevented.
Those gathered here today to mourn the loss of this beautiful child vary in their knowledge of the girl, her parents, or the event that took her from this place. Some who knew what happened only knew what was said on the local news. Some knew more. Some knew her mother, a friendly worker at the local grocery store, just a girl herself in some aspects. Some knew her father, a well known face in this tiny, hill top community.
The day is dreary, perfect funeral weather. There is overcast in the sky, probably going to rain soon.
"There is an old Catholic saying that would normally be applicable today. They say that if it rains on a casket, the soul of the person within is sent directly to heaven. I say ‘normally applicable’ because, while it is starting to rain and the drops will surely befall this half sized coffin, there is no doubt in my mind that this beautiful child is already looking down on us, amazed to see the amount of people gathered here for her today. She was loved."
In the front row of the funeral-goers is the family of the child taken from this earth. The young mother is falling to pieces, tears flowing like an aqueduct. Her young father sits there, stone faced. Not known for showing emotion, today is no different. There is no interaction between the two either.
The little girl was murdered. An accident, so was said. Caught in the crossfire of a drug deal gone bad. Not the intended target.
HOW ON EARTH IS THAT ANY CONSOLATION TO THE WOMAN WHO BLAMES THE MAN AND THE MAN WHO BLAMES HIMSELF?!
No worries, she is leaving him, and he will drink himself into a stupor in the upcoming future.
She blames him. He blames himself.
The both think it should have been him.
__
4-6-2014 (cont’): It’s Not a Bad Thing
The man walks through the door of the office, a sly smile on his face as he sees Will sitting at a desk facing the door.
"Will."
"Shawn."
Will stands and walks towards the door and shakes his hand, giving the big man a hug.
"How have you been?" Will asks.
"Good days, bad days. Just like everyone."
"Your situation is hardly one shared my everyone, though."
"It could be worse."
"How on earth could your situation be any worse?!" asks Will, surprised. Malakai stares at him. He seems to get it. "You could be dead?"
Malakai starts to walk behind the counter and towards the desk, patting Will on the shoulder.
"You say that like it’s a bad thing," responds Shawn, that smirk on his face, like he knows something the rest of the world will never know.
"Don’t talk like that," responds Will. Malakai notes a very hurt look upon William’s face. This causes him to put his hand on the back of Will’s neck and squeeze a little bit, a friendly gesture to calm him.
"You know what I mean, Mr. Turnman."
Malakai puts his whole arm around his friends neck and squeezes him into a headlock. Both men laugh, the look of concern gone from Will’s face.
__
9-14-2001: Bleeding a Stone
There is a knock on the door. An elderly woman walks through the lengthy corridors of the large home and opens the door.
"Willie," she says upon seeing the face of the man behind the door.
"Mrs. Murtaugh. You look lovely as always" comments Willie, giving the old woman a big hug.
"Thank you, Willie. Kind as your mother brought you up to be."
"Of course. How are you?"
"I am fine dearie. And you?"
"Holding up ok."
"Good."
"…and…?"
"Not too sure how he is doing, honestly. He won’t talk much."
"And Julia?"
"She is at her mothers."
"Ah."
Willie walks the house and Mrs. Murtaugh closes the door behind him. He walks with her down the long hallway, walking slightly behind her to catch her if she falls, unsteady. When they reach the end of the hallway, Mrs. Murtaugh walks towards the kitchen.
"You know where he is, dearie. I am going to make some food. Is there anything you would like?"
"No ma’am. Just make what he will eat."
"He won’t eat anything."
"Understandable."
"Yes. I need something though, so maybe if I make enough, he will eat too. You also?"
"Hah…sure, I suppose I could use a bite."
"Get him out of there," she says, stern.
"I’ll try my best."
Mrs. Murtaugh disappears in the kitchen and Willie makes his way into the study where his friend is laying down on one of the couches.
"Shawn," is lightly let out by Willie, Shawn pulling himself up to a seated position and looking over at his friend.
"Hey, Willie."
"Hey, yourself."
Willie closes the large, oak door behind him and walks towards the couch opposite his friend. He has to make his way there gingerly, as it is almost pitch black in the study with the door now closed. The blinds, closed. The drapes, drawn. He feels around like a blind man for the edge of the couch. Finding it, he throws himself down and pulls one of the ornate pillows to put his head on.
"You know something?" he asks Shawn.
"What’s that?"
"This house does not look like you should own it. I mean, this place is a mansion. You are twenty six years old and have owned this place since you were eighteen."
"One of the perks of being a face of the community, I suppose."
"Yep."
An eerie silence befalls the room. Willie takes in some of the few things he can make out with the lack of light, his eyes starting to adjust.
"Mrs. Murtaugh is making some food. Should be done soon. You hungry?"
"No."
"Ok. Maybe later?"
"Maybe."
More silence.
"So how does one exactly get up the fortitude to ask his best friend how he is feeling just twenty four hours removed from the death of his daughter? Is that what you are pondering right now, Willie? Is that why all you can do is make small talk?"
"No. I was actually wondering what Mrs. Murtaugh was gonna make. Little ol’ lady can really cook."
No response.
"This ain’t the time to make jokes…I’m sorry, Shawn."
No response.
"Shawn?"
"I don’t quite know if this is an appropriate time or not for someone to make a joke in the presense of someone who does not even currently know what way is up."
"What do you mean?"
"I’m not sure what to think right now."
"Well, you are grieving. That is tough for anyone, but especially someone so young, who loses someone…so…"
"My daughter is dead, Willie. You can say it. I’m not going to lash out at you and rip off your head or anything."
"…what the hell is wrong with you?"
"Absolutely nothing. And that is the problem. I’m not sure what I should be doing right now."
"Now is not the time to clam up and act like a man. Even those with a stone heart can bleed when squeezed enough, and this is the tightest it can be squeezed."
"But…what if I don’t know how to bleed?"
Willie shoots up from his position and hits the light at the end of the couch, turning on the lamp, illuminating the room. He turns to look at Shawn, who is sitting staring at the bookshelf far behind Willie, an emotionless expression upon his face.
"Why’d you hit the light?"
"Because I want to see the face of the person lying to me. I get that you are someone who has lived your live with an ability to sympathize, but not empathize. And in some situations, your callousness is almost unparalleled to even that of a sociopath. But not even you could be able to look passed the death of his own daughter."
"Who said I was looking passed it?"
" ‘What if I don’t know how to bleed?’" mocks Willie as he walks to the couch Shawn is on, kneels down in front of him. Willie never took real notice as to how tall Shawn really is here, on his knees in front of him. Trying to act intimidating and get him in a human state of mind was going to be hard from this angle, but maybe his point will get through somehow.
"It was my fault, Willie."
"What do you mean?"
"I killed her."
"What drivel is this? You had nothing to do with it?"
Shawn leans over and rests his forehead on Willie’s shoulder, and his voice grows soft, but reeks of alcohol.
"She called me. She asked me if it was ok for her to ride her bike home from her friends. I took her there, I should have ridden back to get her. I should not have let her."
"I don’t see what you did wrong? Xana knew how to ride a bike, and was responsible enough to not detour, even at such a young age. I don’t see…"
"If I had said no, she would have had to wait for me. I would have gone to get her."
"And you feel as if you going to get her would have been enough time inbetween…"
"No."
"Then what?"
"Me going would have meant it would have been me."
Willie leans back and sits on his heels, Shawn’s head falling forward, into his hands in one motion.
"Her still being alive would be best for everyone, Shawn. But what good it have been for you to be the one who was shot, killed?"
"Because we would not be here now, you trying to bleed a stone."
"No, because I would be here consoling a six year old little girl who would be wondering why daddy isn’t coming home. Why Mrs. Murtaugh is hugging her sobbing mother. Why is mommy crying to begin with? And in a few years when the ramifications of what occurred hits her, blaming herself. The only difference between her and you is you got the luxury of skipping the not understanding step."
"Did you REALLY just say ‘luxury’ to me? Do you really think feeling as if you are the cause of your daughters death is a part of the high life?" Shawn is screaming.
"That is not what I meant and you know it."
"Yeah. What you meant was that it was better for my child to be robbed of her life instead of me, right? Better her than me."
"No, because in a perfect world, neither of you would be dead," Willie starts to back away.
"No. A perfect world now would be both of us dead."
Willie gets to his feet slowly and hauls off and slaps Shawn directly across the face, Shawn’s expression unchanging, even with a red mark starting to appear on his cheek. Shawn springs to his feet and grabs Willie’s shirt. Willie trips over the table in between the couches and falls backwards, Shawn holding his shirt tight as to not let him hit the table with full force. Willie’s expression has changed from horrified to cold. Not as cold as Shawn’s, but still. Willie lets a little smile creep onto his face. Shawn lets go of his shirt, letting him hit the table. Shawn broods over him.
"Why in the f*ck are you smiling?"
"Because the stone just bled."
Shawn stares down at Willie for a good minute, the expression on his face unchanged, but behind his eyes, there were about thirty different emotions and feelings coming through at once. Anger. Sadness. Confusion.
But for the first time in the last twenty four hours, none of them were indifference.
"You’re wrong," says Shawn, turning around.
"Oh?" Willie barely gets it out trying to sit up from the awkward position he was just dropped. "You throwing me onto the table like this shows emotion. You are human, you know."
"I never said I wasn’t."
"You were acting like it."
"You misinterpret my feelings and thought process for acting. I pray you never have to deal with what I have going on in my head."
"I wish you didn’t either."
"I wouldn’t have if you would have just left me alone," says Shawn, walking towards the door.
"Where are y…"
"I’ve got to eat something."
Shawn opens up the door and walks towards the kitchen, blowing completely passed Mrs. Murtaugh, who had a tray of food in her hand.
"Is everything alright, Willie? I heard shouting."
"No, nothing is alright. It will never be alright. Never."
__
9-18-2001 (cont’): Down the Rabbit Hole
As the minister sprinkles holy water on the tiny coffin, the droplets roll off of the wooden box along with the rain that has started to pour. He is chanting some nonsensical Latin, the congregation stands, singing a hymn from some paper pamphlet handed out to them at the start of the service. The diggers start to lower the casket into the ground as the sobs grow even louder from the group.
"Amen," say all.
The child’s mother walks with her own mother to the place that will forever house her little one, sobbing, tossing in a bouquet of lilac’s, the little girl’s favorite flower. The girl’s father makes his way to the grave, standing over the hole, staring down passed the coffin into the canter of the earth.
He was contemplating jumping in there and allowing the dirt to pile on top. No one would stop him. No one would pull him out. No one would know. He looks down at the bouquet of lilacs and grips the stems so tight they break under the pressure. He hangs his head, the rain coming down by the gallons now, his suit drenched. His long hair soaked. As he prepares to fall into the hole, from behind he is grabbed, someone…a friend, grabbing onto the back of his suit jacket. This friend places his hand on the father’s neck, squeezing it, almost as it to massage the pressure shooting straight through to his brain…to try to make the thoughts go away for just a second. He keeps his head down, staring into the blank as he takes a deep breath, tossing his bouquet down the hole and walking away, his friend trying to put him into a headlock.
"Even someone as confused as me knows that this is hardly appropriate funeral behavior, Willie."
"Neither is jumping down the rabbit hole of which you do not know the end result. That won’t make things any better. You want to change something? You want to kill yourself? Do something better than that about it. If you are so dead set on ending it all, do something useful in the process. Don’t let this beautiful girl go in vein. I won’t let you."
__
4-6-2014 (cont’): It’s Been Awhile
"Seriously though, how are you?" asks Will.
"I’m alright. Have a lot of stuff on my mind."
"There’s a shock. Here, sit, you look terrible," says Will, pulling out the chair from his desk and motioning for Malakai to sit.
"Thanks for the high compliment."
"Of course."
Malakai removes his jacket, places it across the top of the chair and takes a seat. Will goes behind his desk and takes a seat of his own.
"It’s been a while since we last got to see each other, Shawn."
"Sure has been."
"What, ten years?"
"Hmm…I suppose has been that long. I apologize for that, and for dragging you down here on a Sunday."
"Hey, if I didn’t want to be here I wouldn’t. And besides, there are…extenuating circumstances surrounding your trip back to this part of town."
"Yeah. Extenuating."
A stark silence befalls the room, time standing still. The hand on the clock not even making a sound.
"I know how bad you look, but is it as serious…"
"Yeah."
"And there is no chance of…"
"Would I be here if there was?"
"I don’t know. Would you?"
"Honestly? Probably not."
"Well thanks for that."
"Don’t take offense, Will. You know why."
"Hey, did I say I took offense?"
"I suppose not."
Will settles into his seat and kicks his legs up onto the desk, settling in.
"Now then."
__
8-13-2004: The Best Therapy
When most people think of the gym, they think of monster physiques, broken new years resolutions and pain and gain. They think a sizable place with mirrors and fitness machinery everywhere. They think sweat. They think results.
This place is not your normal gym.
Just a short drive from the small, hilltop cul-de-sac, home of generations of stagnancy and an inability to understand the true facets of how harsh life can really be outside of their mystery shows on ABC; here is the Knockout Gym in Versailles, Pennsylvania. On the outside, it is really just a bright, square, yellow eyesore to an otherwise…well the city itself is an eyesore. Who we kidding?
The inside is not much better. The facility is kept clean, but all that is in there is a boxing ring, a few heavy bags, a couple of treadmills and a set of dumbbells in the far corner. Nothing too fancy.
Hands taped, Shawn has made his way from the weights to the heavy bag. He throws a few punches and kicks, giving each hit his full strength. His grunts turning into full-fledged screams with every hit, sweat flying off of him at every go. His hair, longer than ever, soaked, flapping back and forth, hitting his bare chest. Completely in his own world, Shawn backs away from the bag and starts to throw some heavy roundhouse kicks to the body of the bag, every kick causing the bag to turn in on itself ever so slightly.
"I thought I might find you here."
Shawn stops kicking and hugs onto the bag, looking passed it and seeing Willie standing about three feet away.
"I’m not a hard man to find."
"Nope."
"Here, help me out here. Hold onto the bottom of the bag. I’m going to unhook it."
"Alrighty."
Willie gets under the bag and holds on for dear life as Shawn simply stands on his tip toes and is unable to unhook the bag from its seat on the ceiling. Willie succumbs to the weight of the bag and falls backwards, the bag landing on the floor just inches from his face.
"A little help?" Willie asks, trying to catch his breath.
"Yeah."
The big man grabs ahold of the chain, pulls the bag up and throws it onto his shoulder and starts walking towards the boxing ring in the center of the gym.
"You sure you can just take stuff down like that?"
"No one has told me otherwise. And besides, who is going to stop me?"
"Bad boy Shawn, eh?"
"Shut up."
Shawn slides the bag off of his shoulder and into his hands and lifts it up in a military press position, simply heaving it up and over the top rope of the ring. He pulls himself up onto the apron, wipes his boots and steps over the top rope into the ring.
"You know, I never noticed how jacked you are really getting," says Willie, in an almost flattering way.
"Hey, I don’t roll like that. I appreciate the compliment though," says Shawn, letting out a laugh.
"Noooooooooooo! I just mean, you were always taller than everyone, but I just noticed how ripped you have been getting."
"This is almost the best therapy a man could ask for. The body just comes with the territory."
"Almost the best? What IS the best?"
"That’s actually something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about."
"Oh?"
"I’m leaving Port Vue."
"For how long?"
"Depends on the run. A while, maybe shorter. Maybe longer."
"What are you doing?"
Shawn picks up the heavy bag, wraps his arms around the middle, twists himself to the left and slams the mat to the bag, falling on top of it. Quickly, he pulls the bag back up, wraps the middle, twists and slams himself and the bag down to the mat.
"I’m taking Johnny up on an offer."
"…for what…?" asks Willie, starting to get the bigger picture.
"To go out to Glendale and train to become a wrestler."
"You know Johnny’s an idiot, right?"
"He is offering the best kind of therapy a man could ask for."
"Wrestling?"
"Hitting someone else instead of a heavy bag," responds Shawn, in the corner of the ring, tossing the bag up and over his head behind him. He wipes the sweat off into the tape.
"I see."
"You don’t approve?"
"It’s not that."
"Then what?"
"…nothing, really. Just…I don’t know…wondering why now all of a sudden you have taken an interest in becoming a professional wrestler. Weren’t you going to be a priest at one point? Can’t you go back to that?"
"Hey now, I always loved wrestling. You know that better than anyone. How many Pay Per Views have you bummed off of me when you offered to pay for half?"
"Fair enough."
"And I can hardly become a priest now. Not really my thing anymore."
"What, the ministry?"
"Nah. God," says Shawn as he starts tucking the bag under his arm and sidewalk slamming it, changing arms after every few, not missing a beat.
"I see. When do you leave."
"Tomorrow."
"So what was your plan if I had not decided to try stopping here to find you? Leave a note on my stoop ‘Left to become a professional wrestler. Will be back: Eventually."
"That reminds me: You’re going to find an envelope in your mailbox. You can just pitch that."
Willie leans against the ring apron, putting his chin in his hands.
"I hate you."
"I know."
Willie slides off his shoes and slides under the ropes.
"Alright then, Shawn. How about a real target?"
"You really want to do this?"
"Bring it on."
Shawn grabs ahold of Willie and lifts him up above his head and lays him down on the mat softly. Shawn puts his boot on Willie’s chest and looks down on him, smiling.
__
4-6-2014 (cont’): First Steps
"That was the first time I had seen a smile in you since…I don’t even know when."
"And the last."
"Until you got here today."
"Which is the first time you have seen me since that day."
"Nah, not the first."
"You stalking me?"
"You have been on TV every week for the last 10 years."
Malakai sits back in his chair, putting his elbow on the arm, his chin in his palm.
"You HAVE been watching."
"Why wouldn’t I?"
"Because I know what you meant ten years ago when you questioned my decision, and you used me flip flopping my next career move as an excuse. I know what you really meant. Why would I take the pain of Xana and how she died in such a violent way, and go into a profession that allowed me to be violent myself?"
"Correct," responds Will.
"And seeing as your mental prowess is much larger than mine and it only took me a handful of years to figure out why you were so against it, I take it you figured out why I never looked you up after?"
"Yes. I knew you were in a new life. You had to still live in that mansion of yours when you would come home from lengthy UWA or WFWF trips. But the same reason you never looked me up was the same I, never, you."
"I am truly sorry about that."
"Don’t be. I understand. The last thing you needed in a new life was a reminder of the old. You had to live with the memories. What was I going to do? Make it worse by being there? I did what I felt was best to help you when you were in your time of need…"
"Which is why I…"
"Shut up," says Will. "No more apologies. It was as much my choice to help you forget as much as you could as it was yours to try. For the record, I am happy you looked me up for this."
"A fitting end to a Shakespearean tragedy."
"Ever the dramatic."
"Of course."
Both men sit upright in their seats, Will pulling out a yellow tablet out and grabbing pen and a form.
"Then…shall we begin?" Turnman asks, a quiver in his voice.
"Yep."
"Right. So, a few basic questions that I need you to answer, and then sign off on. Ok?"
"Right."
"Name?"
"Shawn Malakai."
"Date of Birth?"
"May Twenty Sixth, Nineteen Eighty-one."
"As of this moment, April Six, Twenty Fourteen at," Will checks his watch. "…three eighteen PM, of sound mind and body to continue this process of drawing up your last Will and Testament?"
"I am."
"Very good. Sign the bottom."
Malakai takes the paper from Will and takes a deep breath, signing his name on the line at the bottom of the page. He hands the form back to Will who places it in an empty vanilla folder. He pens Malakai, Shawn in the corner and tucks it into the cabinet behind his desk. Now with his attention to the yellow pad, he starts to scribble a few notes on the page and then looks up at Shawn.
"Right. Where do you want to start?"
"I don’t know. I’m not too sure what to do in situations like this."
"Not the first time I have heard you say something like that."
"I s’pose," smiles Malakai.
"Start from the top; that is normally my go to."
"Ok. Gonna trust you on this."
"So Julia…"
"How is she these days?"
"No clue. Last I saw her was when Mrs. Murtaugh passed on, and with her, any sign of Julez."
Malakai bites at his fingernails.
"Not surprised. The day Xana died, she shut down just like me. She removed herself from society as did I. But I never stopped caring for her. We both just stopped caring for me."
The power behind that statement throws Will for an absolute loop. He lays his pen down on the pad, folds his hands across the table, and looks Shawn in the eye.
"Look. I’m not going to help you if you keep defaming yourself. I get it. You still hate yourself. You still look down on yourself. You always have, and after…that…I can’t say I blame you."
"Big thanks to the peanut gallery."
"Funny. But if you want my help with this, you won’t do it all that much. Got it?"
Malakai sighs, nodding his head.
"Good. Now what about your brother?"
__
12-8-2008: Brother, Dearest
It is amazing how just a few things can change a person’s life forever. It is amazing how small a world we really live in.
We find Horror wandering the corridors of an old church, one of the last few in the area that has 24/7 access, provided you make a small donation to its upkeep. Horror finds the candle room and drops a $50 in the box and lights a candle. He says no prayers, he just walks out of the room and continues wandering.
To try to help someone understand the scope and detail of this place is like asking someone what love smells like. It is just impossible to do it properly without the other person having some knowledge of the sensation. But one shall try here.
It is nighttime here in Pittsburgh, so the only lights on inside of the church are the mandatory safety lights. Other than that, you are surrounded by windows allowing in glittering moonlight from outside in an array of spectacular colors. Some of the stained glass windows you will see on the outside of churches are beautiful at any time. They are beautiful on a Sunday morning when everyone is happily doing their one day of service to the Lord a week. But for anyone who has had the privilege to be in a church in the dead of night, you have truly been given a blessed treat. The sun may be pretty, but there is something that only the light of the moon can do for those windows that can blow your mind.
The church has cathedral ceilings that go up for days, chandeliers hanging above, now electrified instead of lit with fire. The architecture is that of an old Gothic style. The arches are perfect. You can see the Golden Section everywhere. And the marvelous thing? Stone. This entire building was build a couple of hundred years ago, and it is built almost entirely of stone. Horror smiles, remembering the short amount of time he spent in England on tour with the WFWF, seeing some of the old Catholic churches there…he was happy to see something made its way over here.
Including him.
Horror knew he was adopted. He was told at a very young age that his mother and father were unable to conceive, and they found him on a charity church trip to England, stopping in a foster home to see a friend of the ministers, and he was there having just been left on their stoop. And since no one saw him dropped off, they took him in at the home and took care of him.
His parents fell in love with him instantly and after a few months of legal proceedings and a LOT of money, they managed to successfully adopt him.
Instead of hiding from him that he was adopted (after all, he was white and of European decent like them, they could have never told him) they told him as soon as they felt he was old enough to understand. From that moment on, he thought to himself how cool it would have been to have a brother. He had Willie, a childhood friend, and Julia who is now his ex-wife, but he never had a sibling in general because mom and dad couldn’t have any kids of their own, let alone a brother.
As he got older and started doing his own thing, Horror finally stopped thinking about it. After all, he got married, had a child, lost a child and got divorced. What reason had he to think anything of it?
So he spent some time in WFWF. He grabbed ahold of a group, who was starting to fail, Projekt Hardkore, and got itself into a battle it was sure to lose against a team on top of the world, The Independent Scene. After he joined up with Hardkore, they turned it around and were able to force The Independent Scene to disband. But just as they were at the height of their stable-ness, the whole thing fell to shambles. But he had bonded with David Williams, a young Brit who had joined up in the WFWF just a few months after him, and they decided they were going to stick it out as a team. Rebrand themselves Chemical Reaction, and take a stab at the WFWF Tag Team Championships, being held at that point by The Axis.
So they took on all comers, and they came out victorious in most of the battles. They tried our best to piss off The Axis enough that they would give Reaction a tag title shot. Hell, Reaction went so far as to go out in the middle of the ring, dressed up like Kurt Burton and Wayne McGurk, and when Axis came out to deal with the issue, Reaction dropped slime from the ceiling, covering both McGurks, Burton, Thunder and Starlight in the process. It was hilarious.
They were finally granted a tag title shot at SuperBrawl V, just a few weeks ago. But because he was an impressionable idiot, Yukio Blaze allowed The Survivorz and Team F*ck You into the match.
Needless to say, the latter of those teams came out on top, but not before a masked man came out and hit Horror with a brick to cause him to be eliminated.
Upon further digging, Horror found out some very grim facts. He found out that the person who hit him was Reckless, another up and comer who he considered a friend. He found out that Reckless and David Williams were working together to back Horror into a corner. They were threatened by his ability and needed to keep him in check, so they bought his contract from King Kraig and were keeping him under their marionette strings and rod.
And worst of all?
Williams was his brother. His actual, biological brother.
Now, what you are thinking is ‘how corny is this?’ It sounds like a bad soap opera. Pretty sure Obo referenced it ‘The Young and the Wrestling’ at one point. But sure enough, it was true. Williams and Horror came from the same woman…only she decided to keep David instead of Shawn.
Which brings us to why Horror is here in this church. He has known about the contract thing for a while, but the brother thing is a fresh stab to the gut. A few years ago, Horror had made the comment to a friend that he had given up on God. And understandably so, given his daughter and ex-wife. But what had he really done to deserve this?
He wanted a brother, but not this way! Put it back!
So what was he to do? Well, he went to what he was raised to do when times got tough. He went to church.
Only time will tell if God answers his ‘knee mail’ or not.
__
4-6-2014 (cont’): St. Shawn- The Madman
"You know, when I found out I had a brother…you would think I would be excited. I mean, growing up that was all I ever wanted. I had you, but nothing in blood."
"Yeah, I get you."
"And then when I finally did get a brother, and I found out who it was in the way I found out…it was…"
"It was like the little kid who got socks for Christmas and not the shiny new toy?"
"That may be the greatest analogy I have ever heard."
"So…nothing for him?"
"Our relationship is…"
"Rocky?" asks Will.
"Well it would have to actually exist to be even rocky."
"I thought you two were working together around the time you were diagnosed?"
"Ehh…not really working together, He was paid by Xavier to protect me. I was his best shot at ensuring he kept some kind of control over the WFWF. Truth be told, I had no interest in the political games he was playing, but I wanted the title shot…and I had a bone to pick with Ms. Quinn. So I allowed Williams to tag along."
"And something happened in the process?"
"Yeah. The guy abandoned me after Scars and Stripes and tried to sell me out to that Solomon guy I have to fight in a couple of days."
"He sold you out? How?"
"He told him about Xana…"
"Which was public knowledge to anyone with a computer."
"Yeah, but he talked about the alcohol too."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"So nothing for him?"
"Can I leave my last douche to someone?"
"I don’t think so."
"Damn."
Both men laugh as Will takes a look at his watch.
"Somewhere to be? I don’t want to hold you up."
"Nah. Hungry. You want Chinese?"
"Sure."
"Right on. One sec."
Will gets up from the desk and starts talking very slowly to someone on the other end of the telephone. If only he knew half of the time they did understand him they just liked making the callers sound stupid.
Thanks God he met Cam Nitta to teach him that.
While Will is up, Malakai walks over to the bathroom. He opens the door, flicks on the light and lets the water run.
"What am I doing here?"
He cups his hands under the water, then submersing his face in his hands, allowing the water to fill every crevice of the middle of his face, the pressure forces the water out of the gaps in his hands. He takes his wet hand and goes to run his fingers through his head and hits nothing but skin on his temple, the hair lost to the disease, like much more. Malakai leans onto the sink and allows his fingers to take in the flow of the water, each splash feeling cold in his left hand, and soothing to his right. Noticing the sensation, he finds his eyes fixated on that right hand. After all of these years, it never fully healed. The burns were serious, and Malakai knew he could be seriously harmed, short term, but he did not know that the flames of glory would leave such a lasting effect.
"Why am I still doing this to myself?"
Malakai turns off the faucet and turns to the paper towel dispenser, drying his hands off, his right hand tingling and starting to feel really warm. He takes the towel and wipes off the wet part of his temple and throws the towel away, hitting the light and leaving the bathroom. Will is still off on the phone in the other room, so Malakai takes the opportunity to snoop from behind the desk. He pulls Will’s chair out and sits, the leather forming to his back and arms like a second skin. He glances at the photos in the corner of the desk and looks back out of the window of the office. He then, whiplashes his neck to the photos again, seeing the photo he had left for Will in the letter that he put in his mailbox all of those years ago. It was of a much younger, less fit, happier Shawn Malakai carrying a young child, who looked asleep. He has her head cradled and her body tucked in the crevice between his arm and his lower chest, a huge smile on his face. A true smile, not one of those faux flashings of teeth he has given to everyone over the course of the last twelve and a half years.
"Yeah; I know. I know."
"What’d you say?" asks Will, who has returned from making silly with the Asian man.
"Haha. Nothing. You order?"
"Yeah. You cool with Kung Pow Pork?"
"Sure."
Who the f*ck is ok with Kung Pow Pork?
"My chair comfortable or something?" asks Will.
Malakai cocks his head, looks down and realizes what he means. He shoots up.
"Sorry!"
"I’m kidding man," Will puts up his hands and smiles. "If that is more comfortable, we can conduct business from there."
"No, no. Just wasn’t thinking when I came from the loo."
"Loo? You really were adopted from England, weren’t you?"
Malakai shoots Will a wink and sits in the chair on the other side of the table. Will sits in his comfortable chair, the envy of Malakai’s back.
"I see you didn’t burn the letter," Malakai points out to Will, glancing at the frame that houses the picture of himself and Xana.
"Of course not. I had to see if you really were going to ‘k latr bye!’ me or not."
Shawn bites his bottom lip and shakes his head left and right.
"I could never have done that to you."
"I know that," says Will, putting pen to paper again. "Ok, nothing for your ex wife, nothing for your brother. How about we list your major possessions in your estate and you can divvy up as necessary?"
"That could work."
"Alright. I guess the biggest thing could wind up being the proceeds from your autobiography."
"You heard about that?"
"Of course. I heard the thing could be a barn burner."
"It is the ramblings of a dying mad man. How can it be that much of a barn burner?"
"Well people still dead the Book of Revelation, don’t they?"
Malakai’s book just got compared to the Bible, and Malakai himself to St. John. Internally, he is giddy as a schoolgirl.
"Touche."
Small. Simple. Keepin’ it smooooooth.
Malakai cocks his head at Will, biting his lip again with his canine.
"You know something? I hadn’t actually thought of it making any money. I am doing it for nostalgia and to heal old wounds, at least within the confines of my own mind, but I suppose my status in society might actually warrant a few buys here and there."
"Yeah. A ‘few’ buys."
"Oh quit it, you know you were getting a free copy," responds Malakai, giving a sarcastic sneer at Will. "I suppose a book about death should go to help the cause of death."
"You are going to donate the money to Trace Demon?"
Not cool.
"Not cool."
See?
"Give the proceeds to Lustgarten."
"The Pancreatic Cancer Foundation?"
"Yep."
Ever since his diagnosis, Malakai has refused treatment for reasons known only to him and God. But in a show of good will, Malakai has been working with Lustgarten to develop a cure. Obviously it is too late for him, not that he would use the cure, but for those stricken with the disease who do NOT have a deathwish…
"Makes sense," Will says as he jots down something on the tablet. "Now what about the manor?"
"You mean my house?"
"Yeah. The manor."
"It is not that big."
Will gives Malakai a stare that could kill. Uncomfortable, Malakai readjusts himself in his seat and begins to think who in his life could benefit from his house. He gets a real perplexed look on his face.
"You struggling with this?" asks Will.
Malakai grins.
"Nah, I was f*cking with you. Truth be told, this was one of the things I vaguely knew where it was going before I walked in."
"Oh?"
"Yep."
__