Post by The Gangsta on Sept 6, 2017 23:30:18 GMT -5
Ante Whitner RP
My Inferno
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Prologue
“Dear Ben,
Today is the anniversary of my father’s death. Usually, when this date comes around, I either A: go to a bar at night and bang some underage whore within the first twenty minutes or B: work out all day until I’m incredibly sore. However, today is different. Maybe it’s because it’s been 15 years or that my existential crisis has reached a climax, I don’t know. But today, I chose to write with pen on paper like a classical playwright. Why am I writing though? Why am I doing something I never do? To release my pain, reveal my longing for more amazing people in my life, and catch up on things with you since I haven’t seen you in weeks. So here it goes, I guess (hopefully I’m not too bad):
I like to think of myself sometimes and believe I’m solely comprised of hypotheticals, ‘ifs and buts’. I contemplate on this and that, never putting the reality in front of me. It’s always been myself walking on a freshly paved road with prickly Lego bricks surrounding it, except that I had been strolling on the Lego bricks for too long that the road and the bricks feel the same. It’s odd, absurd, and daunting to think I’m leper on Lego bricks. All I do is walk, jog, and run down an endless path. There’s never been a destination, only the marriage of pain and normality.
In all of my attempts to justify that feeling by myself, I pretend to make absurd connections between my opponents and I. All the existential bullsh*t is too much for me to handle truthfully, even if I had read and studied it on Wikipedia hours prior. I guess just complex theories and philosophical quotes turn me on. It’s been constant overthinking and overanalyzing for months now. It separates my body from the mind, withering my intuition, missing opportunities. I must feed my will to feel my moment drawing outside the lines and still, I feel empty. I feel as if I’m dissipating, my atoms and molecules breaking apart and floating into the air like loose balloons. I’ve suffered my entire life, but this is a new breed of torture.
The torture is multiple things, but it’s ideally a loss of identity and a struggle to escape desolation. One can say the zeitgeist of this suffering was my loss to Nikki Dean, another could say it was the shaken, guilty feeling of beating Michael Kyzer when I probably shouldn’t have. But, honestly, I blame it on the people around me. Here’s the catch, no one’s around me. It's a lonely life here in Yonkers, always has been and always will be. The smog of New York City travels into the wasteland of New Jersey and then back here. We call it the “wasteland’s wasteland”.
My separate lives in Seattle and Miami were filled with people, action, and drama that fueled my ambition to be someone greater than myself. It was just so goddamn lively and not thickly filled with humidity and pungent smells. It’s as if there was this more humanic and naive Ante that was left behind in Seattle and Miami. Maybe that was the peak Ante.
And if it was, I really f*cking hope he’s gonna return soon.
Maybe he’ll save the day and help me win the International Title this Sunday. Maybe he’ll show up and reveal to me what the hell Schneider wants with my soul. Maybe through all of the pools of blood and darkness, maybe, he’ll bring me back to the sunlight. Hopefully, you’d want to see that too.
For the first time in my life, I don’t want to be hostile nor dismal. I just, I guess, don’t want to rot in an apathetic existence forever. Is that too much to ask or am I just being selfish? No matter how many times I smoke or drink, I can never shake off that question. It’s answerable in nature, but hypothetical regardless of how you attempt to solve it. It’s a question with infinite different solutions, damn near rhetorical. I guess that’s where you come into play.
Ben, in all honesty, you’ve been the only true friend I’ve had in my entire life.
My brother Charlie, my childhood buddy Frankie, and everyone in between don’t even compare. They were all rhetorical entities that could never be answered for the sake of wasting time. You, on the other hand, get me in a way that I could always freely ask and answer all of life’s daunting questions. You may be my agent, you may be just my employee, but I hope I am as much of a great friend to you as you are to me. Writing these emotions and feelings on a cheap, blank, white paper helps heal the holes and tears in my heart, reminding me of the people I know that truly make my life meaningful (including you). It makes me feel more than superficial, more than what everyone thinks I am. It’s like a punch in the gut to remind oneself that they’re still alive.
Ben, when you get this, I hope you realize why I’m such a d*ck, why I’m such a nuisance, and why I can’t win every fight I’m called up to. For the first time in my life, I’m truly afraid. David Brennan, Philip Schneider, they’re all giants, stepping on me when I walk in their paths. How the f*ck can I beat them? How the f*ck can I be the giant in one night and actually match them? Having the title of ‘longest reigning National Champion in WFWF history’ gives me a burden, an expectation to be much greater someday. It’s been two f*cking years since then and soon enough, it’ll be 15 with no other accomplishments to match it (unless you count that bullsh*t briefcase).
Sometimes I hope to just escape the world, maybe transform into something no one will remember me by. Maybe I’ll metamorphosize into a giant roach or a lizard king. That’d be f*ckin’ dope.
Anyways, I’ll talk to you when you get back, can’t wait to see you.
-Ante”
I. Flat-lined
To say I’m a disappointment is an understatement.
Lights flashing everywhere, whiter and brighter than when Frazier first dropped Ali. The crowd’s roar vibrates the puddle of blood near my mouth so violently that it splashes up in my face. Frank Lynn’s theme song rings in my ears as he stands on the top rope, clinching his “third-time's the charm” victory. I lost, plain and simple.
But something is wrong, I can’t move. I try moving my fingers and hands, shaking like a Parkinson’s patient. Footsteps get louder and louder, the blood vibrates more violently, entropy floods my head. As I start shaking my head to knock off this feeling, a hand reaches out. It’s Frank.
He says something, but to me, it comes out as some muffled dog bark. I stare at his hand for a moment, trying to make sense of if this is reality or not. I grab it tightly, being pulled up with the last bit of strength Frank has. He smiles and continues to shake my hand and as he’s doing so, he whispers in my ear, something about Dalmore.
Then, black.
Carolinas Medical Center
Charlotte, North Carolina
May 24th, 2017
The voices are muffled, my hands numb to the point where a single strum of guitar can break ‘em, head pounding like a loud bass drum. The first thought that pops into my head is “what am I doing?” instead of “where am I?”. I continue to ponder on my whereabouts until I see two figures, some pasty white doctor and James. Why the hell is James here?
James: Can he still not speak?
Dr. Fortmeyer: Only “yes”, “no”, “that”, basic words. It’s all slowly coming back to him, which is definitely a good sign. We just have to give it time, he woke up out of coma yesterday for god's sake.
Coma, what the f*ck? Time is a blur to me, I can't even remember waking up “yesterday”. I begin to think about the taste of Dalmore, the Jack, hell even a sh*tty Long Island Iced Tea. Why am I thinking about alcohol? Maybe because I need to flush the devastating migraine away.
James: How long until he can talk again? I need to know.
Everclear, where you at?
Dr. Fortmeyer: Talk? At least two weeks sir, he just woke up from a com-
The muffled sound jumps to 100 and my ears feel like they're bleeding. I try to cover them with my hands, but they're unable to lift themselves. F*ckin’ hell… I'm a vegetable.
James: Jesus f*cking Christ...
Dr. Fortmeyer: Superstar or not, Mr. Whitner’s a human being.
James: I know.
Alcohol, migraines, vegetables, and James being my healthcare provider? This is either some sick prank or an “It's Sunny in Philadelphia” episode.
Dr. Fortmeyer: Is there any family members I can talk to?
My ass.
Ben: He has a brother, somewhere. He hasn’t been in contact with him in years.
Ben?
? What the f*ck? Where has he been???
James: None that I can think of.
What the f*ck are you saying, I have a brother somewhere James. Ben just f*ckin’ said it.
Dr. Fortmeyer: Who takes care of Mr. Whitner’s assets and stuff?
Assets, ha.
Ben: That’s me.
I haven’t heard your voice in such a long time Ben. Speak to me more.
James: That’s me Doc.
Wait, what the f*ck? Ben, B-
Ante: B.. B…
Black.
4 Days Later
This recovery, this rehab, it’s f*ckin’ torture. Jasmine has been my nurse for the past few days as my motor skills come back to me, but God, she’s been awful. Her high-pitched Latina voice drives me insane, her perfume suffocates anyone in a two meter-radius, and she eats flaming hot Cheetos everyday for her midday snack. Imagine all of that Cheeto breath entering your nostrils as you suffocate to death. Is this honestly the top-notch, highest quality healthcare in North Carolina? F*ck Obamacare.
Jasmine: Hold onto the rails Mr. Whitner. You can’t quite walk freely yet.
Fat ass, strong perfume, walked with a limp, and most likely an undocumented immigrant. I can’t stand her for one more second.
Ante: Don’t lecture me on walking freely if you can’t hobble correctly either ma’am.
Jasmine: Ante, please.
I laugh like an assh*le. It’s something in my emotions today, bipolar disorder or not. For the months and years leading up to this moment, I only acted like a d*ck. Today, I can’t shake off that demeanor.
I’m genuinely an assh*le.
Ante: I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong today.
Jasmine: Do you want me to get someone else, perhaps the neurologist?
Ante: No.
I shrug off her hand from my elbow and continue to walk freely. I hear Jasmine mutter “wow” to herself like a tan muscled man showing off his impressive steroid-induced physique. To be honest, I’m surprised I’m walking after only four days of being here. If you had compared me from a few days ago with a low-IQ Stephen Hawking, you wouldn’t see a difference.
Ante: You’re f*ckin’ kidding.
James walks into the room and signals me to walk toward him. I stumble a little when I try to reach him and nearly bust my ass, but he catches me.
James: Sorry for makin’ you walk mate. I completely forgot.
He helps me walk down the hall into a secluded meeting room. James, out of all people, is helping me right now. This is truly insane.
Ante: It’s fine.
We make it and I sit down in a chair across from him. He brings my Golden Opportunity briefcase.
James: How are ya feelin’?
Ante: Wait, what are you doing with that?
James: Don’t worry right now, just tell me how ya feelin’.
I feel a sudden rush of anger that I could barely control. I breathe harder, in and out of my nostrils. He looks at me with a puzzled face.
Ante: Fine.
James: Good to hear man. Few days ago, I came to visit you after you collapsed. Do you remember it at all?
Ante: Barely.
James: Well, I need you to try and remember. It has to do with this thing.
He pats the briefcase like some dog. I try to recollect everything piece by piece to no avail. Trying to remember things from a medically induced coma makes you wanna be put back in it. My brain is numb, my hands are dry, and yet, I have some bunghole, hot sh*t, ginger across from me asking me to be someone I am not.
Funny how my emotions change with the flicker of a switch.
Ante: James, I honestly don’t know. And why the hell does it have to do with my Golden Opportunity?
James: Because there’s something in here that wasn’t there before. It’s a letter, made by you.
What?
James: Open it. Do you remember the combo?
Muscle memory.
Ante: Yes.
How does he know the combo, the f*ck? I begin to turn the knobs up and down until I reach the correct combination. I expect to see multiple things in there, maybe all of the bottle caps I’ve collected or some Benjamins crumpled up. But no, it’s empty beyond the one piece of paper in here. “Golden”.
I unfold the letter and read it. It’s a letter I sent to Ben months ago, how the f*ck did it end up in my hands again?
Ante: I sent this to Ben months ago, I don’t get it.
I start feeling hostile and dismal. Sweat develops underneath my armpits and my eyes. He’s playing me.
James: Oh Jesus… Ante, there’s no other way to say this.
Ante: What? Say what?
I feel my fingers and hands trembling. My memory is slowly coming back to me. No, no…
James: Ben is…
Ante: Dead.
We sit in silence for a minute. I ponder on my thoughts and how I could’ve possibly neglected the “real” ones for months. Jesus f*ck…
James: Yes, I’m sorry Ante. There was no other way to break it. I just can’t believe-
Ante: Believe what? That I forgot?
James: Yeah, you were a wreck that day.
The images come back into my head of arriving at the morgue to see his mangled, bloody body. How.. how did I forget?
Ante: Car accident, March 28th…
I look on the paper and glance over on the sentence that says “the anniversary of my father’s death” and look even closer. The date is not my dad’s death anniversary… it’s March 28th, the day Ben died.
James: Ante, there’s something seriously wrong with you, beyond the incident at Ultimate Supremacy.
Ante: Jesus…
James: I’m sorry for-
Ante: No, don’t be, please… I… I needed to know.
James: I enlisted a broad range of doctors to try and pinpoint what the hell is wrong with ya, but God knows how long that’ll take. Philip Schneider has fired the first shots of the war and we need you ready as possible.
Ante: Wh… what?
James reaches for his phone in his pocket and shows me a grainy YouTube video of Schneider in a WFWF ring, calling me a “problem” and a “one pump chump”. My mind is racing, my emotions are fading, I can’t keep up. I don’t know what’s worse, having Philip Schneider after me or remembering your only friend’s death after ignoring it for months. I, I, I have no escape. This is my reality now.
James: It’s war now Ant’. There’s no way around this.
I remain silent and nod. He’s right. Everyone was right. Everyone who told me I was over my head, everyone who told me I was alone. They were all right, every single one of them.
Ante: Book me on the next flight home.
James: What? Ante, are you serious? You’re clearly-
Ante: Ben is dead. I ignored it through my horrifying abuse of booze and drugs, using them until I blacked out. Every, single, day.
James: Ante, my god…
Ante: I did it to the point that I couldn’t remember why I was abusing all of these drugs in the first place. The Jack, the Everclear, the cherry cocaine Donnie gave me a year ago, they’re all gone. I went through extreme withdrawal James, I’m flat broke. I-
James: Ante, stop for a minute. Please.
Ante: I’m sorry James, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you all of this.
Tears start coming down my face. What I was saying was true. James gets up and leans in for a hug as I try to stand up and leave.
James: I’ll get you home tomorrow.
Ante: No, I need to be better. I need to stay here.
James: You’re broken, reckless, and unhinged. This, this is what you need to face Philip Schneider.
He’s right. I have no other chance.
----
“Schneider, I vividly remember the moment I read your first teenage Tumblr post when it got posted. I recall thinking, “man, I earned the respect of a legend”, “man this is so cool”. But, right after, I remember saying to myself “he’s Philip Schneider, there’s a reason for this”. I was hoping you’d prove me wrong, but nonetheless, here we are.
Not a day has gone by in my career where I haven’t faced the prospect of an eventual match between us. I’ve foreseen it for months, hell, even years, avoiding anyone who asks me “so when are you gonna fight Schneider?”. You know what happened to the last man who asked me that question? Michael Kyzer. You wanna know what happened in the eventual match between Kyzer and I? I ate him alive. But was I full, was I quenched? Hell no.
In my apathetic existence, I’m never satisfied or disappointed. Instead, I’m always at an uncomfortable level of uneasiness I can’t kill off. For you, that’s an easy task to accomplish because you have the entire arsenal of Leatherface at your disposal. For me however, it’s entirely brand new. I’ve lost countless matches in the search for the solution you could grab in minutes, I’ve sacrificed parts of myself I’ll never get back while you sacrificed only your time. That’s why I’ve seen our fight as bigger than Mayweather and McGregor, bigger than the f*ckin’ hurricane that slammed Texas last week. It’s a clash of ideologies, a clash of psychopaths, and a clash of kings all in one.
I thought that dream was dead when you lost to Drakz two years ago. But, I was foolish to think you would quit like that. I was foolish to think you would tap like a little b*tch, dumb to think you’d stay under the shadows forever. However, I’ve come to learn you have a taste for the theatrical like myself. Flamboyant entrances, thrilling and chaotic matches, you crave the attention like I do. It fuels your fire, doesn’t it?
Well, God damn it Phil, we were destined to fight each other. Having the thought in your head of being potential partners was foolish on your part, but come on man, it’s common sense that we would’ve wasted everyone’s time if we did that. Los Hobos 2.0 would never work out, it didn’t even work out when it was 1.0.
We can’t quit each other like that, we can’t give up our golden ambitions. This is our glory. This is our show. This is our storm. And like all storms, a warpath must be defined. Here’s an open invitation to the flaming, barbed-wire rope match we will be having at Ashes to Ashes. I’ll see you there.
-Ante”
II. Phantom Pain
To say I’m way over my head is an insult.
Heading West
Edmonton, Canada
July 29th, 2017
Elijah: You’re on in five.
Ante: Okay.
I grip the microphone as tight as I can and glance at the Golden Opportunity briefcase on the table. Every miniscule voice through the headsets of the stage crew deafened my ears. So much on my mind, so many thoughts directed at Phillip Schneider. “Broken, reckless, and unhinged”.
Elijah: Get ready, Ante.
I’m alone, alone in my thoughts, alone back home. Through all of the crew members and the screaming fans, I still feel alone. Some say the end is near for me, some say I’ll see Armageddon soon. I certainly hope we do, I sure could use a vacation from this bullsh*t three ring circus sideshow of freaks. Ben, I really f*ckin’ miss you buddy.
All of the emotion built up, all of the bullsh*t in one ten second stage entrance. The crowd’s roars are silent to me, the vibrations in my steps are incomprehensible. It’s f*ckin’ rigor mortis. I blink a few times and I’m already in the ring, time passing by faster and faster. I grip the mic and let my subconscious drop a bomb solely on Phillip Schneider.
Ante: So, it’s been a good amount of time to heal up and watch the sun bury itself many times over. The horizon has been waiting too f*ckin’ long for me to ride into it, but I believe that time has come. This ain’t just any ride down to the House of the Rising Sun, no no no. This is a f*ckin’ rollercoaster doomed to plow over any psychopathic, masochist Jew that happens to be in it’s way. Speaking from the tongue of an experienced simpleton, who obviously would rather be an emasculated, infantile complain-ee, this should be pretty f*ckin’ easy to understand. Philip Schneider, I want you. I crave you like a consumerist on bath salts, a husband desiring to escape wedlock, a Jew trying to reach the nearest temple on Shabbat. Plain and simple, you’re the nightmare fueling my flame. So, let’s talk business Schneider and put our petty remarks to the side. I want to show everyone what it takes to be a real man.
I pause, trying to catch my breath. I see the crowd cheering, but I can’t hear them. Alone, alone, alone.
Ante: A real man comes out here, battered and bruised, to talk some sh*t. A real man puts out the fire when no one else does and a real man ain’t waiting around being a keyboard warrior on the Internet. This is what a real man looks like...in a more obnoxious and vindictive demeanor. I lugged my broken ankle, my dislocated shoulder, and my hemorrhaging liver to this arena in buttf*ck Canada to make it clear to Philip Schneider that I don’t want petty business...I want a sweet, fiery, gore fest hosted by the late George Romero. Maybe we’ll have our good friend Dave Brennan ref the match, who f*ckin’ knows? I’ve set my eyes on you since you first walked out and clapped to my victory at SuperBrawl, keen on what a perplexing man like you would have in store. I’ve waited and waited, itching my skin to jab at you next. Well, at this point *lifts up sleeve*, I’ve itched too much of my skin off that I have a f*ckin’ skin graft, haha.
The first time my scars have been visible to the naked eye. I feel the cameras zooming in on my graft’s grotesque appearance. Everyone finds it repulsive, I find it satisfying.
Ante: Gross, ain’t it? Hurts like a b*tch, but I’m proud, proud to be the one waiting for him and not be the one he’s waiting for. I sit on a throne, forged by the burning desire of bloodlust, and until you f*ckin’ get out here and show how big your balls are, I’ll be sitting here, waiting. Get out here you f*ckin’ p*ssy.
I feel my balls drop when I hear his music play. Funny how your fears cancel out the white noise, but God when fear itself faces you, the music plays louder than the silence. I’m distracted, too deep in my fear. Then, boom, a shot from behind by Schneider himself. I feel each smack with the bat a wake-up call, hitting snooze every time it ends. Until it happens again and again and again to the point I don’t have the option to snooze again. Blood starts pouring down my face, but I retaliate grabbing the sickle he brought out to carve me up. I start hearing everything again, the crowd booing. I devilishly smile at him.
Ben: Ante, kill him.
I pull back Schneider’s hair and carve into his head, laughing every time. I feel church bells ringing out with the crowd going silent. With time going by so fast before, it suddenly felt so slow. The sickle in his forehead is itching to be made into a swastika like Hans Landa. I keep urging myself to do so. Then, a sudden, hot rush of fire bursts into my face, point blank.
I go black for a few seconds as the Jew escapes. Our first true encounter. I feel hands on my arms, just like the hospital when they tried to contain me. Water is thrown into my face, towels too. I embrace the fire Schneider flung at me, craving more. The pain... the pain, it feels so good. Elijah runs ringside.
Elijah: Ante, get out of here! Come on, let’s go.
I grab his hand to get pulled out of the ring. The canvas, it felt tainted with my presence, marked in a way I haven’t felt since I was National Champion.
I was king.
Elijah: Jesus Christ, someone help him.
Ante: I’m fine, I don’t need help.
My eyesight gets fuzzy, clouding my brain with confusion and sharp pain.
Ben: You’re right Ante.
I shove my way into the locker room to escape his calming voice, Elijah follows. He’s my roadie, my biggest fan, also technically James’s substitute for the night.
Elijah: That was powerful.
Ante: Excuse me?
Blood is still rushing down my head onto my fingers as I wipe it away from my eyes. I lick it off my fingers like Cheeto dust.
Elijah: What you said out there, you really got him riled up for him to assault you.
Ante: Oh, believe me, I knew he would pull something like that. We’re not waiting for each other to make our moves anymore. This is hand-to-hand combat now.
Elijah: Jesus man.
The paramedics come in, patching up my burn marks. Pieces of my skin fall off my face and I eat them, licking every groove in my dead skin to taste the withered pain. I’m shedding, morphing into something better.
Ante: The pain, the pain is such a sudden rush for me Elijah. It’s like f*ckin’ adrenaline.
Elijah: Ante, let the guys help you. Oh, and by the way, vulgarity is not a substitute for wit.
Ante: F*ck off c*nt.
As soon as I say “I’d rather not”, the guys back off a little in fear of me lashing at them with the sickle. Maybe I can carve swastikas in their heads.
Ante: I’m not gonna f*ckin’ kill you guys. I’m gonna f*ckin’ massacre the Jew that did this to me.
Elijah: Ante, Jesus.
Elijah is transforming into a protege of mine day by day. He’s been on the road with me to Edmonton for the past few days, paying the gas money and telling me tales of his childhood in Harlem over pretzels and Gatorade. Both of us had it really f*ckin’ bad and we found wrestling as an outlet to escape our lives. However, there’s something different about him and his affinity for this industry. He has a natural desire for this stuff, an eagerness to learn more and more. Maybe, just maybe one day I can see him on TV whooping someone’s ass.
Ante: You asked me what this business looks like. This is what it f*ckin’ looks like brotha. Blood, anti-Semitism, and extreme violence.
Elijah: This is borderline murder.
Ante: It is borderline murder.
He gets up from his chair and tries to leave the scene along with the paramedics. I’m wrapped up in so many bandages I can barely see nor talk.
Ante: Get the f*ck back here man. They’re done.
Elijah reluctantly returns to his seat with a sigh.
Ante: What? Can’t handle it? Can’t fathom the sight of blood and burnt flesh?
Elijah: Ante, I saw you chew up a chunk of dead flesh from your face.
Ante: And?
I look at all of the self-inflicted scratches and skin-grafts. I really did a number on myself this time.
Elijah: You’re mental.
Ante: I thought that was established already f*cktard.
Elijah: Ante. This is what quote-on-quote “wrestling” looks like?! Burning people alive, carving swastikas into opponents’ heads?
Ante: Depends on the flavor you crave. You wanna be a p*ssy and fight under the standard rules, go ahead. You wanna be a master strategist and manipulator, go ahead. You wanna be a bloodthirsty psychopath, go ahead. Wrestling is both hellfire and holy water, the taste depends on how you treat her.
He leans back in his chair.
Ante: I evidently chose to be a bloodthirsty psychopath. Actually, I became one, no choices involved.
Elijah: That’s why you probably shouldn’t be wrestling right now. You’re unhinged and broken, your friend’s death took a huge toll on you. You were in the goddamn hospital under a medically induced coma.
Ante: Funny, James told me the complete opposite. He told me to use Ben’s death as leverage against Schneider.
Elijah: And how far will you go?!
Ante: As far as I want to c*nt. I’m the lizard king, I can do anything.
Elijah: Keep saying that Ante, you’re only a human being.
He abruptly leaves like a little b*tch and slams the door. I continue to sit in the locker room with droplets of blood dripping from my chin, waiting for Schneider to come in again with a baseball bat to hammer me down like Glenn. I pull out a switchblade in case, brass knuckles in the other hand. I’m truly alone now, alone in my own fears, alone in my own pain, alone covered in large white bandages like a freshly lobotomized mental patient. Fresh meat for the Jewbear.
The door swings open suddenly with someone I would never expect to be there. Frankie.
Ante: Frankie?
Frankie: Oh my god, your friend was right. You’re a mess.
Ante: Why the f*ck are you here? How the f*ck did you-
Frankie: Because I heard about what happened to you; Ben, the hospital, the whole nine yards. I needed to see you as soon as possible.
Ante: I don’t need you to be here.
Frankie: Clearly, you do.
Ante: I don’t.
Frankie: I hope that’s a joke.
Ante: You wish.
Frankie: Why do you hate me so much Ante? What did I do? What made you hate an innocent cripple like me?
In all honesty, I can’t really explain the hostility I have towards Frankie. I really can’t. Perhaps he reminds me of Percy.
Ante: I… I don’t know. Just please, I need you to leave.
Frankie: I waited on a 6 hour flight in this goddamn wheelchair to see you. I plan on fulfilling that promise to myself.
A tear comes dripping down my cheek. I start to push the blade out of it’s holster.
Ante: Please, go.
Frankie: Ante, as disabled and incapacitated I am, I am and never will be afraid of you.
Ante: You should be.
Frankie: No, I shouldn’t. I’ve known you since we were kids. Remember that WFWF pay-per-view we went to at MSG? Huh?
I wipe away the tear. I’m feeling more and more guilty than I ever could.
Ante: Yes.
Frankie: Remember the day you told me you signed with the WFWF? Remember how excited you were? Huh?
Ante: I do.
Frankie: Yeah, and remember the day you became the National Champion and went to a random ass local church to pray like a drunken hobo?
We both chuckle.
Ante: I forgot about that.
A tear rolls down Frankie’s cheek.
Frankie: Look, I may be a sh*tty friend for not keepin’ in touch, not being there for you in your most dire times, but look at me, I’m a vegetable. There’s some effort that needs to be made on your half too.
The more he talks, the more he looks like Percy. The more he looks like Percy, the more I fear I’ll absolutely despise him by the end of the night.
Frankie: My life is pretty much over Ante, it has been since your brother dropped me on my neck years ago. But, I don’t let my disability define me. If I did, I wouldn’t be in front of you in Edmonton right now. This was your dream as much as it was mine Ante.
Ante: I know.
Short responses are the most succinct when you have nowhere to hide. If the bandages were bigger, I could’ve hid in a bandage-cocoon and he wouldn’t have found me.
Frankie: You’re still the same Ante. Not a day has gone by where this business has changed you.
Ante: Are you sure about that?
Frankie: 100 percent.
Wow.
Ante: Thanks.
Frankie: Wait a sec, I just remembered something.
Frankie reaches into his pocket. I haven’t even noticed how much skinnier he looks. Goes to show how self-centered and ignorant I could be. He pulls out a lighter and a box of cigars.
Ante: Cigars?
Frankie: They’re not just any, they’re Cubans. Your father’s Cubans.
The f*ck? I start chuckling.
Ante: Jesus, I haven’t seen those in years.
Frankie: Your dad gave me one when he was drunk once. Then, he gave me another, and another, and another. I stockpiled them for a moment like this, a moment where I’m reconnecting with you.
He hands me one. I take the lighter first. As I light it and breathe in the fine tobacco and nicotine, an idea pops into my head. The lighter, the burnt scars on my face, and a cripple in front of me. All signs point to..
Ante: Schneider.
I devilishly grin.
Frankie: What?
Ante: I know what I’m gonna do to Philip Schneider. I know how I’m going to kill him.
Frankie: Ante…
Ante: I’m gonna burn him alive. I’m gonna rip the ropes out, replace them with barbed wire soaked in kerosene, and light it on fire.
Frankie: Ante are you f*ckin’ insane?!
Ante: It’s not gonna hurt me, I’m immune to the flames at this point. The absence of sturdy ropes and the presence of a blazing inferno will make Schneider’s balls drop. He said he wanted to “dance”, let’s give to him. In the fiery pits of Hell.
Frankie: Ante, your body, it’s not gonna be able to handle it. F*ck your make-shift immunity to fire, you’re going to get torched just like the f*ckin’ Dog.
I get up and head for the door.
Frankie: Ante!!!
Ante: If I don’t come out alive after our match, goodbye Frankie.
I exit the door with a Cuban in my hand. I continue to smoke it as I walk around backstage, earning the confused gazes from the likes of Frank Lynn and David Brennan, ironically my last two victorious opponents. I walk to Schneider’s locker room and wait outside, half-expecting him to come out and smack me with his bat. I smoke the Cuban one last time and press it into the door, smiling as I do it.
I move my hand up and down, left and right, creating the image I tried to create on Schneider’s forehead earlier. An ashy, permanent, swastika. I take the switchblade from my pocket and slightly stab it into the wooden door. The screeching sound pierces my ears as I etch in my own personal remark below the swastika. It takes me about three minutes to fully carve, but it reads as follows:
“This is what I do to pieces of crap like you. Get ready for the Holocaust.”
I smile. My masterpiece is complete.
Epilogue
Pedestals. Marble, white, easy to get lost in. There’s something about the color white that drives us crazier than darkness. There’s something about the superficial hardness of marble that makes us feel invincible. And of course, there’s that height on a pedestal we can’t climb to without extra help from a ladder or stepping stool. If all of the above applies to this pedestal, what are we even f*cking standing on? A hypnotizing, falsely-invincible, platform that we have to climb to with special equipment?
Yes, it’s exactly that. It’s fictitious, no different than dracula or bigfoot. But, somehow, you survived and thrived on that ambition, that thought. No one could beat you for a year, no one dared to challenge you until you provoked them to. The pedestal you stand on gives you those violent tendencies that keep you up at night, the ones that could earn yourself a spot next to the Chief and Nurse Ratched if you piss off the wrong lad. “Big Match Phil” on a notion that doesn’t inherently exist. That’s starkly similar to my whole notion of being a king amongst a land of desertion and famine.
Egos kill us, day by day. If I didn’t lose my National title, my fantasy of being an “Eagle king” couldn’t have been stopped. If you didn’t lose your career to Drakz, your fantasy of being the “Heretic Hero” or “Prophet of Ash” wouldn’t have ended either. We’re both pure men now, Phil. We’re naked, alone against the onslaught of flaming barbed wire. The flaming barbed wire won’t kill us Phil, it’ll only bring us to clothe ourselves in reality. We’ll realize we’re more than subservient entities like Adam and Eve. Pretend this is the genesis, pretend this is the metaphorical awakening of our characters. Our souls are igniting in a way that Xenu would only preach. Preach, preach, preach.
Philip, you have a daughter and a crippled best friend. I have a dead friend and crippled lost friend. I’m not a father, you are. You’re not youthful, I am. We’re mirror images of each other, I’m sure you’ve noticed. I aspired to be you one day, you aspired to see me fit those shoes. But, sitting here as an infantile little b*tch, I realize that ambition was nothing but false. The more you look at the mirror, the more you’ll realize it’s just a wall of glass. I’m not destined to become you, you’re destined to become me. As corny and far-fetched as it sounds, my suicide in this match is one that’ll give you the incentive to carry on my failed legacy. It’s not your legacy I’m willing to carry.. It’s mine.
Innocence is over. Ignorance is spoken. Confidence is broken. Sustenance is stolen. Arrogance is potent. I say those five phrases over and over again in my sleep to remind myself of the virtues I’ve been given and the ones I’ve neglected. I’m a broken man, bordering on brain death. One trip on the sidewalk and I could be gone. One bad fall on the mat and I could be gone. One more smack of a baseball bat and I could be gone.
I’m hanging on a thread, a thread that’s degrading every single day. There’s only so much abuse you can take in this business and through all of the increased frustration, inability to make sense, and failure, I still found my way to assault you and the legacy you hope to leave. I embrace my desire to feel the rhythm, to feel connected enough to step aside and weep like a widow; to feel inspired, to fathom the power, to witness the beauty, to bathe in the fountain, to swing on the spiral. of our divinity and still be a human. In the past months, I’ve lost my one-way ticket to stardom, my best and only friend, and my sanity. To say I’m a disappointment is an understatement. To say I’m way over my head is an insult.
But, to say I’m a one-pump chump, to say I’m the problem, to say I’m anything else besides Ante Whitner is a flat wrong. A huge mistake on your part.
Career suicide is imminent for me, your victory over me will be one heard throughout the realm. I know you will kill me because of how feeble I am. But, Phil, I’m not going down without a fight and I hope you know that. I’m bringing whatever I have left, I’m pouring every last bit of kerosene in my arsenal on those “ropes” to create the most chaotic and entropic match in WFWF history. The Holocaust, the dark aroma I hope to create will be accomplished, dead or alive. I want to see you burn Phil not just in the fiery inferno, but in the words you’ve spewed at me in my not-so-finest hour. It’s inevitable.
Like Kronos, I’m going to eat you and your daughter Samantha alive. I’m going to make sure you’re both tainted with the kerosene I drown you in. I will rip you apart, limb by limb, devouring every muscle fiber and thick bone you two have. I’ll eat your daughter first so you can watch in horror, then you. I know little girls taste delicious. If I don’t physically eat you two alive, then the pain you inflict on me that ultimately kills me will. I will haunt you and everyone you love.
I’m devoting every last bit of myself to this fight. I’m devoting everything I’ve got to accomplish the impossible. I’m frustrated, fed up, and angered beyond comprehension. I hope you feel that frustration in every punch I land, every scrape I cut, and every burn I inflict. I mean the name of the show is called Ashes to Ashes for a reason. This is the culmination of my career’s work, my life in one fiery, inferno match. As long as you’re as devoted to it as much as I am, this will be 100 percent worth it.
This match is a reflection of who I am, who I’ll always be, and who you’ll never want to be. I scare you Phil, I freak you out. I love scaphism, you love lingchi. I love strategy, you love gore. But, this is it, the final clash. You called me the one-pump-chump; let’s see how much cum I have stored for you Obo. We’ve got a minute ‘till midnight.
Welcome to Ante’s Inferno motherf*cker.
My Inferno
-------
Prologue
“Dear Ben,
Today is the anniversary of my father’s death. Usually, when this date comes around, I either A: go to a bar at night and bang some underage whore within the first twenty minutes or B: work out all day until I’m incredibly sore. However, today is different. Maybe it’s because it’s been 15 years or that my existential crisis has reached a climax, I don’t know. But today, I chose to write with pen on paper like a classical playwright. Why am I writing though? Why am I doing something I never do? To release my pain, reveal my longing for more amazing people in my life, and catch up on things with you since I haven’t seen you in weeks. So here it goes, I guess (hopefully I’m not too bad):
I like to think of myself sometimes and believe I’m solely comprised of hypotheticals, ‘ifs and buts’. I contemplate on this and that, never putting the reality in front of me. It’s always been myself walking on a freshly paved road with prickly Lego bricks surrounding it, except that I had been strolling on the Lego bricks for too long that the road and the bricks feel the same. It’s odd, absurd, and daunting to think I’m leper on Lego bricks. All I do is walk, jog, and run down an endless path. There’s never been a destination, only the marriage of pain and normality.
In all of my attempts to justify that feeling by myself, I pretend to make absurd connections between my opponents and I. All the existential bullsh*t is too much for me to handle truthfully, even if I had read and studied it on Wikipedia hours prior. I guess just complex theories and philosophical quotes turn me on. It’s been constant overthinking and overanalyzing for months now. It separates my body from the mind, withering my intuition, missing opportunities. I must feed my will to feel my moment drawing outside the lines and still, I feel empty. I feel as if I’m dissipating, my atoms and molecules breaking apart and floating into the air like loose balloons. I’ve suffered my entire life, but this is a new breed of torture.
The torture is multiple things, but it’s ideally a loss of identity and a struggle to escape desolation. One can say the zeitgeist of this suffering was my loss to Nikki Dean, another could say it was the shaken, guilty feeling of beating Michael Kyzer when I probably shouldn’t have. But, honestly, I blame it on the people around me. Here’s the catch, no one’s around me. It's a lonely life here in Yonkers, always has been and always will be. The smog of New York City travels into the wasteland of New Jersey and then back here. We call it the “wasteland’s wasteland”.
My separate lives in Seattle and Miami were filled with people, action, and drama that fueled my ambition to be someone greater than myself. It was just so goddamn lively and not thickly filled with humidity and pungent smells. It’s as if there was this more humanic and naive Ante that was left behind in Seattle and Miami. Maybe that was the peak Ante.
And if it was, I really f*cking hope he’s gonna return soon.
Maybe he’ll save the day and help me win the International Title this Sunday. Maybe he’ll show up and reveal to me what the hell Schneider wants with my soul. Maybe through all of the pools of blood and darkness, maybe, he’ll bring me back to the sunlight. Hopefully, you’d want to see that too.
For the first time in my life, I don’t want to be hostile nor dismal. I just, I guess, don’t want to rot in an apathetic existence forever. Is that too much to ask or am I just being selfish? No matter how many times I smoke or drink, I can never shake off that question. It’s answerable in nature, but hypothetical regardless of how you attempt to solve it. It’s a question with infinite different solutions, damn near rhetorical. I guess that’s where you come into play.
Ben, in all honesty, you’ve been the only true friend I’ve had in my entire life.
My brother Charlie, my childhood buddy Frankie, and everyone in between don’t even compare. They were all rhetorical entities that could never be answered for the sake of wasting time. You, on the other hand, get me in a way that I could always freely ask and answer all of life’s daunting questions. You may be my agent, you may be just my employee, but I hope I am as much of a great friend to you as you are to me. Writing these emotions and feelings on a cheap, blank, white paper helps heal the holes and tears in my heart, reminding me of the people I know that truly make my life meaningful (including you). It makes me feel more than superficial, more than what everyone thinks I am. It’s like a punch in the gut to remind oneself that they’re still alive.
Ben, when you get this, I hope you realize why I’m such a d*ck, why I’m such a nuisance, and why I can’t win every fight I’m called up to. For the first time in my life, I’m truly afraid. David Brennan, Philip Schneider, they’re all giants, stepping on me when I walk in their paths. How the f*ck can I beat them? How the f*ck can I be the giant in one night and actually match them? Having the title of ‘longest reigning National Champion in WFWF history’ gives me a burden, an expectation to be much greater someday. It’s been two f*cking years since then and soon enough, it’ll be 15 with no other accomplishments to match it (unless you count that bullsh*t briefcase).
Sometimes I hope to just escape the world, maybe transform into something no one will remember me by. Maybe I’ll metamorphosize into a giant roach or a lizard king. That’d be f*ckin’ dope.
Anyways, I’ll talk to you when you get back, can’t wait to see you.
-Ante”
I. Flat-lined
To say I’m a disappointment is an understatement.
Lights flashing everywhere, whiter and brighter than when Frazier first dropped Ali. The crowd’s roar vibrates the puddle of blood near my mouth so violently that it splashes up in my face. Frank Lynn’s theme song rings in my ears as he stands on the top rope, clinching his “third-time's the charm” victory. I lost, plain and simple.
But something is wrong, I can’t move. I try moving my fingers and hands, shaking like a Parkinson’s patient. Footsteps get louder and louder, the blood vibrates more violently, entropy floods my head. As I start shaking my head to knock off this feeling, a hand reaches out. It’s Frank.
He says something, but to me, it comes out as some muffled dog bark. I stare at his hand for a moment, trying to make sense of if this is reality or not. I grab it tightly, being pulled up with the last bit of strength Frank has. He smiles and continues to shake my hand and as he’s doing so, he whispers in my ear, something about Dalmore.
Then, black.
Carolinas Medical Center
Charlotte, North Carolina
May 24th, 2017
The voices are muffled, my hands numb to the point where a single strum of guitar can break ‘em, head pounding like a loud bass drum. The first thought that pops into my head is “what am I doing?” instead of “where am I?”. I continue to ponder on my whereabouts until I see two figures, some pasty white doctor and James. Why the hell is James here?
James: Can he still not speak?
Dr. Fortmeyer: Only “yes”, “no”, “that”, basic words. It’s all slowly coming back to him, which is definitely a good sign. We just have to give it time, he woke up out of coma yesterday for god's sake.
Coma, what the f*ck? Time is a blur to me, I can't even remember waking up “yesterday”. I begin to think about the taste of Dalmore, the Jack, hell even a sh*tty Long Island Iced Tea. Why am I thinking about alcohol? Maybe because I need to flush the devastating migraine away.
James: How long until he can talk again? I need to know.
Everclear, where you at?
Dr. Fortmeyer: Talk? At least two weeks sir, he just woke up from a com-
The muffled sound jumps to 100 and my ears feel like they're bleeding. I try to cover them with my hands, but they're unable to lift themselves. F*ckin’ hell… I'm a vegetable.
James: Jesus f*cking Christ...
Dr. Fortmeyer: Superstar or not, Mr. Whitner’s a human being.
James: I know.
Alcohol, migraines, vegetables, and James being my healthcare provider? This is either some sick prank or an “It's Sunny in Philadelphia” episode.
Dr. Fortmeyer: Is there any family members I can talk to?
My ass.
Ben: He has a brother, somewhere. He hasn’t been in contact with him in years.
Ben?
? What the f*ck? Where has he been???James: None that I can think of.
What the f*ck are you saying, I have a brother somewhere James. Ben just f*ckin’ said it.
Dr. Fortmeyer: Who takes care of Mr. Whitner’s assets and stuff?
Assets, ha.
Ben: That’s me.
I haven’t heard your voice in such a long time Ben. Speak to me more.
James: That’s me Doc.
Wait, what the f*ck? Ben, B-
Ante: B.. B…
Black.
4 Days Later
This recovery, this rehab, it’s f*ckin’ torture. Jasmine has been my nurse for the past few days as my motor skills come back to me, but God, she’s been awful. Her high-pitched Latina voice drives me insane, her perfume suffocates anyone in a two meter-radius, and she eats flaming hot Cheetos everyday for her midday snack. Imagine all of that Cheeto breath entering your nostrils as you suffocate to death. Is this honestly the top-notch, highest quality healthcare in North Carolina? F*ck Obamacare.
Jasmine: Hold onto the rails Mr. Whitner. You can’t quite walk freely yet.
Fat ass, strong perfume, walked with a limp, and most likely an undocumented immigrant. I can’t stand her for one more second.
Ante: Don’t lecture me on walking freely if you can’t hobble correctly either ma’am.
Jasmine: Ante, please.
I laugh like an assh*le. It’s something in my emotions today, bipolar disorder or not. For the months and years leading up to this moment, I only acted like a d*ck. Today, I can’t shake off that demeanor.
I’m genuinely an assh*le.
Ante: I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong today.
Jasmine: Do you want me to get someone else, perhaps the neurologist?
Ante: No.
I shrug off her hand from my elbow and continue to walk freely. I hear Jasmine mutter “wow” to herself like a tan muscled man showing off his impressive steroid-induced physique. To be honest, I’m surprised I’m walking after only four days of being here. If you had compared me from a few days ago with a low-IQ Stephen Hawking, you wouldn’t see a difference.
Ante: You’re f*ckin’ kidding.
James walks into the room and signals me to walk toward him. I stumble a little when I try to reach him and nearly bust my ass, but he catches me.
James: Sorry for makin’ you walk mate. I completely forgot.
He helps me walk down the hall into a secluded meeting room. James, out of all people, is helping me right now. This is truly insane.
Ante: It’s fine.
We make it and I sit down in a chair across from him. He brings my Golden Opportunity briefcase.
James: How are ya feelin’?
Ante: Wait, what are you doing with that?
James: Don’t worry right now, just tell me how ya feelin’.
I feel a sudden rush of anger that I could barely control. I breathe harder, in and out of my nostrils. He looks at me with a puzzled face.
Ante: Fine.
James: Good to hear man. Few days ago, I came to visit you after you collapsed. Do you remember it at all?
Ante: Barely.
James: Well, I need you to try and remember. It has to do with this thing.
He pats the briefcase like some dog. I try to recollect everything piece by piece to no avail. Trying to remember things from a medically induced coma makes you wanna be put back in it. My brain is numb, my hands are dry, and yet, I have some bunghole, hot sh*t, ginger across from me asking me to be someone I am not.
Funny how my emotions change with the flicker of a switch.
Ante: James, I honestly don’t know. And why the hell does it have to do with my Golden Opportunity?
James: Because there’s something in here that wasn’t there before. It’s a letter, made by you.
What?
James: Open it. Do you remember the combo?
Muscle memory.
Ante: Yes.
How does he know the combo, the f*ck? I begin to turn the knobs up and down until I reach the correct combination. I expect to see multiple things in there, maybe all of the bottle caps I’ve collected or some Benjamins crumpled up. But no, it’s empty beyond the one piece of paper in here. “Golden”.
I unfold the letter and read it. It’s a letter I sent to Ben months ago, how the f*ck did it end up in my hands again?
Ante: I sent this to Ben months ago, I don’t get it.
I start feeling hostile and dismal. Sweat develops underneath my armpits and my eyes. He’s playing me.
James: Oh Jesus… Ante, there’s no other way to say this.
Ante: What? Say what?
I feel my fingers and hands trembling. My memory is slowly coming back to me. No, no…
James: Ben is…
Ante: Dead.
We sit in silence for a minute. I ponder on my thoughts and how I could’ve possibly neglected the “real” ones for months. Jesus f*ck…
James: Yes, I’m sorry Ante. There was no other way to break it. I just can’t believe-
Ante: Believe what? That I forgot?
James: Yeah, you were a wreck that day.
The images come back into my head of arriving at the morgue to see his mangled, bloody body. How.. how did I forget?
Ante: Car accident, March 28th…
I look on the paper and glance over on the sentence that says “the anniversary of my father’s death” and look even closer. The date is not my dad’s death anniversary… it’s March 28th, the day Ben died.
James: Ante, there’s something seriously wrong with you, beyond the incident at Ultimate Supremacy.
Ante: Jesus…
James: I’m sorry for-
Ante: No, don’t be, please… I… I needed to know.
James: I enlisted a broad range of doctors to try and pinpoint what the hell is wrong with ya, but God knows how long that’ll take. Philip Schneider has fired the first shots of the war and we need you ready as possible.
Ante: Wh… what?
James reaches for his phone in his pocket and shows me a grainy YouTube video of Schneider in a WFWF ring, calling me a “problem” and a “one pump chump”. My mind is racing, my emotions are fading, I can’t keep up. I don’t know what’s worse, having Philip Schneider after me or remembering your only friend’s death after ignoring it for months. I, I, I have no escape. This is my reality now.
James: It’s war now Ant’. There’s no way around this.
I remain silent and nod. He’s right. Everyone was right. Everyone who told me I was over my head, everyone who told me I was alone. They were all right, every single one of them.
Ante: Book me on the next flight home.
James: What? Ante, are you serious? You’re clearly-
Ante: Ben is dead. I ignored it through my horrifying abuse of booze and drugs, using them until I blacked out. Every, single, day.
James: Ante, my god…
Ante: I did it to the point that I couldn’t remember why I was abusing all of these drugs in the first place. The Jack, the Everclear, the cherry cocaine Donnie gave me a year ago, they’re all gone. I went through extreme withdrawal James, I’m flat broke. I-
James: Ante, stop for a minute. Please.
Ante: I’m sorry James, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you all of this.
Tears start coming down my face. What I was saying was true. James gets up and leans in for a hug as I try to stand up and leave.
James: I’ll get you home tomorrow.
Ante: No, I need to be better. I need to stay here.
James: You’re broken, reckless, and unhinged. This, this is what you need to face Philip Schneider.
He’s right. I have no other chance.
----
“Schneider, I vividly remember the moment I read your first teenage Tumblr post when it got posted. I recall thinking, “man, I earned the respect of a legend”, “man this is so cool”. But, right after, I remember saying to myself “he’s Philip Schneider, there’s a reason for this”. I was hoping you’d prove me wrong, but nonetheless, here we are.
Not a day has gone by in my career where I haven’t faced the prospect of an eventual match between us. I’ve foreseen it for months, hell, even years, avoiding anyone who asks me “so when are you gonna fight Schneider?”. You know what happened to the last man who asked me that question? Michael Kyzer. You wanna know what happened in the eventual match between Kyzer and I? I ate him alive. But was I full, was I quenched? Hell no.
In my apathetic existence, I’m never satisfied or disappointed. Instead, I’m always at an uncomfortable level of uneasiness I can’t kill off. For you, that’s an easy task to accomplish because you have the entire arsenal of Leatherface at your disposal. For me however, it’s entirely brand new. I’ve lost countless matches in the search for the solution you could grab in minutes, I’ve sacrificed parts of myself I’ll never get back while you sacrificed only your time. That’s why I’ve seen our fight as bigger than Mayweather and McGregor, bigger than the f*ckin’ hurricane that slammed Texas last week. It’s a clash of ideologies, a clash of psychopaths, and a clash of kings all in one.
I thought that dream was dead when you lost to Drakz two years ago. But, I was foolish to think you would quit like that. I was foolish to think you would tap like a little b*tch, dumb to think you’d stay under the shadows forever. However, I’ve come to learn you have a taste for the theatrical like myself. Flamboyant entrances, thrilling and chaotic matches, you crave the attention like I do. It fuels your fire, doesn’t it?
Well, God damn it Phil, we were destined to fight each other. Having the thought in your head of being potential partners was foolish on your part, but come on man, it’s common sense that we would’ve wasted everyone’s time if we did that. Los Hobos 2.0 would never work out, it didn’t even work out when it was 1.0.
We can’t quit each other like that, we can’t give up our golden ambitions. This is our glory. This is our show. This is our storm. And like all storms, a warpath must be defined. Here’s an open invitation to the flaming, barbed-wire rope match we will be having at Ashes to Ashes. I’ll see you there.
-Ante”
II. Phantom Pain
To say I’m way over my head is an insult.
Heading West
Edmonton, Canada
July 29th, 2017
Elijah: You’re on in five.
Ante: Okay.
I grip the microphone as tight as I can and glance at the Golden Opportunity briefcase on the table. Every miniscule voice through the headsets of the stage crew deafened my ears. So much on my mind, so many thoughts directed at Phillip Schneider. “Broken, reckless, and unhinged”.
Elijah: Get ready, Ante.
I’m alone, alone in my thoughts, alone back home. Through all of the crew members and the screaming fans, I still feel alone. Some say the end is near for me, some say I’ll see Armageddon soon. I certainly hope we do, I sure could use a vacation from this bullsh*t three ring circus sideshow of freaks. Ben, I really f*ckin’ miss you buddy.
All of the emotion built up, all of the bullsh*t in one ten second stage entrance. The crowd’s roars are silent to me, the vibrations in my steps are incomprehensible. It’s f*ckin’ rigor mortis. I blink a few times and I’m already in the ring, time passing by faster and faster. I grip the mic and let my subconscious drop a bomb solely on Phillip Schneider.
Ante: So, it’s been a good amount of time to heal up and watch the sun bury itself many times over. The horizon has been waiting too f*ckin’ long for me to ride into it, but I believe that time has come. This ain’t just any ride down to the House of the Rising Sun, no no no. This is a f*ckin’ rollercoaster doomed to plow over any psychopathic, masochist Jew that happens to be in it’s way. Speaking from the tongue of an experienced simpleton, who obviously would rather be an emasculated, infantile complain-ee, this should be pretty f*ckin’ easy to understand. Philip Schneider, I want you. I crave you like a consumerist on bath salts, a husband desiring to escape wedlock, a Jew trying to reach the nearest temple on Shabbat. Plain and simple, you’re the nightmare fueling my flame. So, let’s talk business Schneider and put our petty remarks to the side. I want to show everyone what it takes to be a real man.
I pause, trying to catch my breath. I see the crowd cheering, but I can’t hear them. Alone, alone, alone.
Ante: A real man comes out here, battered and bruised, to talk some sh*t. A real man puts out the fire when no one else does and a real man ain’t waiting around being a keyboard warrior on the Internet. This is what a real man looks like...in a more obnoxious and vindictive demeanor. I lugged my broken ankle, my dislocated shoulder, and my hemorrhaging liver to this arena in buttf*ck Canada to make it clear to Philip Schneider that I don’t want petty business...I want a sweet, fiery, gore fest hosted by the late George Romero. Maybe we’ll have our good friend Dave Brennan ref the match, who f*ckin’ knows? I’ve set my eyes on you since you first walked out and clapped to my victory at SuperBrawl, keen on what a perplexing man like you would have in store. I’ve waited and waited, itching my skin to jab at you next. Well, at this point *lifts up sleeve*, I’ve itched too much of my skin off that I have a f*ckin’ skin graft, haha.
The first time my scars have been visible to the naked eye. I feel the cameras zooming in on my graft’s grotesque appearance. Everyone finds it repulsive, I find it satisfying.
Ante: Gross, ain’t it? Hurts like a b*tch, but I’m proud, proud to be the one waiting for him and not be the one he’s waiting for. I sit on a throne, forged by the burning desire of bloodlust, and until you f*ckin’ get out here and show how big your balls are, I’ll be sitting here, waiting. Get out here you f*ckin’ p*ssy.
I feel my balls drop when I hear his music play. Funny how your fears cancel out the white noise, but God when fear itself faces you, the music plays louder than the silence. I’m distracted, too deep in my fear. Then, boom, a shot from behind by Schneider himself. I feel each smack with the bat a wake-up call, hitting snooze every time it ends. Until it happens again and again and again to the point I don’t have the option to snooze again. Blood starts pouring down my face, but I retaliate grabbing the sickle he brought out to carve me up. I start hearing everything again, the crowd booing. I devilishly smile at him.
Ben: Ante, kill him.
I pull back Schneider’s hair and carve into his head, laughing every time. I feel church bells ringing out with the crowd going silent. With time going by so fast before, it suddenly felt so slow. The sickle in his forehead is itching to be made into a swastika like Hans Landa. I keep urging myself to do so. Then, a sudden, hot rush of fire bursts into my face, point blank.
I go black for a few seconds as the Jew escapes. Our first true encounter. I feel hands on my arms, just like the hospital when they tried to contain me. Water is thrown into my face, towels too. I embrace the fire Schneider flung at me, craving more. The pain... the pain, it feels so good. Elijah runs ringside.
Elijah: Ante, get out of here! Come on, let’s go.
I grab his hand to get pulled out of the ring. The canvas, it felt tainted with my presence, marked in a way I haven’t felt since I was National Champion.
I was king.
Elijah: Jesus Christ, someone help him.
Ante: I’m fine, I don’t need help.
My eyesight gets fuzzy, clouding my brain with confusion and sharp pain.
Ben: You’re right Ante.
I shove my way into the locker room to escape his calming voice, Elijah follows. He’s my roadie, my biggest fan, also technically James’s substitute for the night.
Elijah: That was powerful.
Ante: Excuse me?
Blood is still rushing down my head onto my fingers as I wipe it away from my eyes. I lick it off my fingers like Cheeto dust.
Elijah: What you said out there, you really got him riled up for him to assault you.
Ante: Oh, believe me, I knew he would pull something like that. We’re not waiting for each other to make our moves anymore. This is hand-to-hand combat now.
Elijah: Jesus man.
The paramedics come in, patching up my burn marks. Pieces of my skin fall off my face and I eat them, licking every groove in my dead skin to taste the withered pain. I’m shedding, morphing into something better.
Ante: The pain, the pain is such a sudden rush for me Elijah. It’s like f*ckin’ adrenaline.
Elijah: Ante, let the guys help you. Oh, and by the way, vulgarity is not a substitute for wit.
Ante: F*ck off c*nt.
As soon as I say “I’d rather not”, the guys back off a little in fear of me lashing at them with the sickle. Maybe I can carve swastikas in their heads.
Ante: I’m not gonna f*ckin’ kill you guys. I’m gonna f*ckin’ massacre the Jew that did this to me.
Elijah: Ante, Jesus.
Elijah is transforming into a protege of mine day by day. He’s been on the road with me to Edmonton for the past few days, paying the gas money and telling me tales of his childhood in Harlem over pretzels and Gatorade. Both of us had it really f*ckin’ bad and we found wrestling as an outlet to escape our lives. However, there’s something different about him and his affinity for this industry. He has a natural desire for this stuff, an eagerness to learn more and more. Maybe, just maybe one day I can see him on TV whooping someone’s ass.
Ante: You asked me what this business looks like. This is what it f*ckin’ looks like brotha. Blood, anti-Semitism, and extreme violence.
Elijah: This is borderline murder.
Ante: It is borderline murder.
He gets up from his chair and tries to leave the scene along with the paramedics. I’m wrapped up in so many bandages I can barely see nor talk.
Ante: Get the f*ck back here man. They’re done.
Elijah reluctantly returns to his seat with a sigh.
Ante: What? Can’t handle it? Can’t fathom the sight of blood and burnt flesh?
Elijah: Ante, I saw you chew up a chunk of dead flesh from your face.
Ante: And?
I look at all of the self-inflicted scratches and skin-grafts. I really did a number on myself this time.
Elijah: You’re mental.
Ante: I thought that was established already f*cktard.
Elijah: Ante. This is what quote-on-quote “wrestling” looks like?! Burning people alive, carving swastikas into opponents’ heads?
Ante: Depends on the flavor you crave. You wanna be a p*ssy and fight under the standard rules, go ahead. You wanna be a master strategist and manipulator, go ahead. You wanna be a bloodthirsty psychopath, go ahead. Wrestling is both hellfire and holy water, the taste depends on how you treat her.
He leans back in his chair.
Ante: I evidently chose to be a bloodthirsty psychopath. Actually, I became one, no choices involved.
Elijah: That’s why you probably shouldn’t be wrestling right now. You’re unhinged and broken, your friend’s death took a huge toll on you. You were in the goddamn hospital under a medically induced coma.
Ante: Funny, James told me the complete opposite. He told me to use Ben’s death as leverage against Schneider.
Elijah: And how far will you go?!
Ante: As far as I want to c*nt. I’m the lizard king, I can do anything.
Elijah: Keep saying that Ante, you’re only a human being.
He abruptly leaves like a little b*tch and slams the door. I continue to sit in the locker room with droplets of blood dripping from my chin, waiting for Schneider to come in again with a baseball bat to hammer me down like Glenn. I pull out a switchblade in case, brass knuckles in the other hand. I’m truly alone now, alone in my own fears, alone in my own pain, alone covered in large white bandages like a freshly lobotomized mental patient. Fresh meat for the Jewbear.
The door swings open suddenly with someone I would never expect to be there. Frankie.
Ante: Frankie?
Frankie: Oh my god, your friend was right. You’re a mess.
Ante: Why the f*ck are you here? How the f*ck did you-
Frankie: Because I heard about what happened to you; Ben, the hospital, the whole nine yards. I needed to see you as soon as possible.
Ante: I don’t need you to be here.
Frankie: Clearly, you do.
Ante: I don’t.
Frankie: I hope that’s a joke.
Ante: You wish.
Frankie: Why do you hate me so much Ante? What did I do? What made you hate an innocent cripple like me?
In all honesty, I can’t really explain the hostility I have towards Frankie. I really can’t. Perhaps he reminds me of Percy.
Ante: I… I don’t know. Just please, I need you to leave.
Frankie: I waited on a 6 hour flight in this goddamn wheelchair to see you. I plan on fulfilling that promise to myself.
A tear comes dripping down my cheek. I start to push the blade out of it’s holster.
Ante: Please, go.
Frankie: Ante, as disabled and incapacitated I am, I am and never will be afraid of you.
Ante: You should be.
Frankie: No, I shouldn’t. I’ve known you since we were kids. Remember that WFWF pay-per-view we went to at MSG? Huh?
I wipe away the tear. I’m feeling more and more guilty than I ever could.
Ante: Yes.
Frankie: Remember the day you told me you signed with the WFWF? Remember how excited you were? Huh?
Ante: I do.
Frankie: Yeah, and remember the day you became the National Champion and went to a random ass local church to pray like a drunken hobo?
We both chuckle.
Ante: I forgot about that.
A tear rolls down Frankie’s cheek.
Frankie: Look, I may be a sh*tty friend for not keepin’ in touch, not being there for you in your most dire times, but look at me, I’m a vegetable. There’s some effort that needs to be made on your half too.
The more he talks, the more he looks like Percy. The more he looks like Percy, the more I fear I’ll absolutely despise him by the end of the night.
Frankie: My life is pretty much over Ante, it has been since your brother dropped me on my neck years ago. But, I don’t let my disability define me. If I did, I wouldn’t be in front of you in Edmonton right now. This was your dream as much as it was mine Ante.
Ante: I know.
Short responses are the most succinct when you have nowhere to hide. If the bandages were bigger, I could’ve hid in a bandage-cocoon and he wouldn’t have found me.
Frankie: You’re still the same Ante. Not a day has gone by where this business has changed you.
Ante: Are you sure about that?
Frankie: 100 percent.
Wow.
Ante: Thanks.
Frankie: Wait a sec, I just remembered something.
Frankie reaches into his pocket. I haven’t even noticed how much skinnier he looks. Goes to show how self-centered and ignorant I could be. He pulls out a lighter and a box of cigars.
Ante: Cigars?
Frankie: They’re not just any, they’re Cubans. Your father’s Cubans.
The f*ck? I start chuckling.
Ante: Jesus, I haven’t seen those in years.
Frankie: Your dad gave me one when he was drunk once. Then, he gave me another, and another, and another. I stockpiled them for a moment like this, a moment where I’m reconnecting with you.
He hands me one. I take the lighter first. As I light it and breathe in the fine tobacco and nicotine, an idea pops into my head. The lighter, the burnt scars on my face, and a cripple in front of me. All signs point to..
Ante: Schneider.
I devilishly grin.
Frankie: What?
Ante: I know what I’m gonna do to Philip Schneider. I know how I’m going to kill him.
Frankie: Ante…
Ante: I’m gonna burn him alive. I’m gonna rip the ropes out, replace them with barbed wire soaked in kerosene, and light it on fire.
Frankie: Ante are you f*ckin’ insane?!
Ante: It’s not gonna hurt me, I’m immune to the flames at this point. The absence of sturdy ropes and the presence of a blazing inferno will make Schneider’s balls drop. He said he wanted to “dance”, let’s give to him. In the fiery pits of Hell.
Frankie: Ante, your body, it’s not gonna be able to handle it. F*ck your make-shift immunity to fire, you’re going to get torched just like the f*ckin’ Dog.
I get up and head for the door.
Frankie: Ante!!!
Ante: If I don’t come out alive after our match, goodbye Frankie.
I exit the door with a Cuban in my hand. I continue to smoke it as I walk around backstage, earning the confused gazes from the likes of Frank Lynn and David Brennan, ironically my last two victorious opponents. I walk to Schneider’s locker room and wait outside, half-expecting him to come out and smack me with his bat. I smoke the Cuban one last time and press it into the door, smiling as I do it.
I move my hand up and down, left and right, creating the image I tried to create on Schneider’s forehead earlier. An ashy, permanent, swastika. I take the switchblade from my pocket and slightly stab it into the wooden door. The screeching sound pierces my ears as I etch in my own personal remark below the swastika. It takes me about three minutes to fully carve, but it reads as follows:
“This is what I do to pieces of crap like you. Get ready for the Holocaust.”
I smile. My masterpiece is complete.
Epilogue
Pedestals. Marble, white, easy to get lost in. There’s something about the color white that drives us crazier than darkness. There’s something about the superficial hardness of marble that makes us feel invincible. And of course, there’s that height on a pedestal we can’t climb to without extra help from a ladder or stepping stool. If all of the above applies to this pedestal, what are we even f*cking standing on? A hypnotizing, falsely-invincible, platform that we have to climb to with special equipment?
Yes, it’s exactly that. It’s fictitious, no different than dracula or bigfoot. But, somehow, you survived and thrived on that ambition, that thought. No one could beat you for a year, no one dared to challenge you until you provoked them to. The pedestal you stand on gives you those violent tendencies that keep you up at night, the ones that could earn yourself a spot next to the Chief and Nurse Ratched if you piss off the wrong lad. “Big Match Phil” on a notion that doesn’t inherently exist. That’s starkly similar to my whole notion of being a king amongst a land of desertion and famine.
Egos kill us, day by day. If I didn’t lose my National title, my fantasy of being an “Eagle king” couldn’t have been stopped. If you didn’t lose your career to Drakz, your fantasy of being the “Heretic Hero” or “Prophet of Ash” wouldn’t have ended either. We’re both pure men now, Phil. We’re naked, alone against the onslaught of flaming barbed wire. The flaming barbed wire won’t kill us Phil, it’ll only bring us to clothe ourselves in reality. We’ll realize we’re more than subservient entities like Adam and Eve. Pretend this is the genesis, pretend this is the metaphorical awakening of our characters. Our souls are igniting in a way that Xenu would only preach. Preach, preach, preach.
Philip, you have a daughter and a crippled best friend. I have a dead friend and crippled lost friend. I’m not a father, you are. You’re not youthful, I am. We’re mirror images of each other, I’m sure you’ve noticed. I aspired to be you one day, you aspired to see me fit those shoes. But, sitting here as an infantile little b*tch, I realize that ambition was nothing but false. The more you look at the mirror, the more you’ll realize it’s just a wall of glass. I’m not destined to become you, you’re destined to become me. As corny and far-fetched as it sounds, my suicide in this match is one that’ll give you the incentive to carry on my failed legacy. It’s not your legacy I’m willing to carry.. It’s mine.
Innocence is over. Ignorance is spoken. Confidence is broken. Sustenance is stolen. Arrogance is potent. I say those five phrases over and over again in my sleep to remind myself of the virtues I’ve been given and the ones I’ve neglected. I’m a broken man, bordering on brain death. One trip on the sidewalk and I could be gone. One bad fall on the mat and I could be gone. One more smack of a baseball bat and I could be gone.
I’m hanging on a thread, a thread that’s degrading every single day. There’s only so much abuse you can take in this business and through all of the increased frustration, inability to make sense, and failure, I still found my way to assault you and the legacy you hope to leave. I embrace my desire to feel the rhythm, to feel connected enough to step aside and weep like a widow; to feel inspired, to fathom the power, to witness the beauty, to bathe in the fountain, to swing on the spiral. of our divinity and still be a human. In the past months, I’ve lost my one-way ticket to stardom, my best and only friend, and my sanity. To say I’m a disappointment is an understatement. To say I’m way over my head is an insult.
But, to say I’m a one-pump chump, to say I’m the problem, to say I’m anything else besides Ante Whitner is a flat wrong. A huge mistake on your part.
Career suicide is imminent for me, your victory over me will be one heard throughout the realm. I know you will kill me because of how feeble I am. But, Phil, I’m not going down without a fight and I hope you know that. I’m bringing whatever I have left, I’m pouring every last bit of kerosene in my arsenal on those “ropes” to create the most chaotic and entropic match in WFWF history. The Holocaust, the dark aroma I hope to create will be accomplished, dead or alive. I want to see you burn Phil not just in the fiery inferno, but in the words you’ve spewed at me in my not-so-finest hour. It’s inevitable.
Like Kronos, I’m going to eat you and your daughter Samantha alive. I’m going to make sure you’re both tainted with the kerosene I drown you in. I will rip you apart, limb by limb, devouring every muscle fiber and thick bone you two have. I’ll eat your daughter first so you can watch in horror, then you. I know little girls taste delicious. If I don’t physically eat you two alive, then the pain you inflict on me that ultimately kills me will. I will haunt you and everyone you love.
I’m devoting every last bit of myself to this fight. I’m devoting everything I’ve got to accomplish the impossible. I’m frustrated, fed up, and angered beyond comprehension. I hope you feel that frustration in every punch I land, every scrape I cut, and every burn I inflict. I mean the name of the show is called Ashes to Ashes for a reason. This is the culmination of my career’s work, my life in one fiery, inferno match. As long as you’re as devoted to it as much as I am, this will be 100 percent worth it.
This match is a reflection of who I am, who I’ll always be, and who you’ll never want to be. I scare you Phil, I freak you out. I love scaphism, you love lingchi. I love strategy, you love gore. But, this is it, the final clash. You called me the one-pump-chump; let’s see how much cum I have stored for you Obo. We’ve got a minute ‘till midnight.
Welcome to Ante’s Inferno motherf*cker.
