Post by The Violent Gentleman on Aug 12, 2018 18:57:02 GMT -5
|Burn.|
Kyoto on Fire
I sat on the small back deck of my modest home-away-from-home, sipping iced tea with not nearly enough sugar added to enjoy it. There were only rumors that the sun would rise, though the black-eyed sky was beginning to heal in varying shades of blue. I had spent another night lost in books, records, and exercise. The music, as strange as a Canadian living in Kyoto, Radiohead’s last three albums on a tight, regimented loop, like a feeling that something was terribly wrong, put to music.
The Waves by Virginia Woolf lay shut, but dog eared in at least a hundred places, kept my heart heavy but expansive, like the Pacific. A suicide note thinly veiled as an intricately great piece of poetic fiction.
It took only one sleepless, crazed night to realize there were only three things that could possibly see me through an earnest attempt at detox, and the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost weren’t them. Short of the Trinity, I moved ever stick of furniture I had down the long, winding gravel driveway and into the street. I pulled the large wrestling mat from the small attic of the A-frame and after a quick cleaning, I had made a place not to die out of a living room.
Each day the sun would rise, over tranquil mountains, warming the sea, breaking through the leaves and branches of Japanese Maples, before gently passing through the many windows, and lighting beautifully, what I was sure would be my last day.
I shook, shuddered, gasped, and growled, between bouts of puking and bargaining with make-believe deities. There is no room for ego and smug certainty when two decades of poison are slowly being pulled out of you.
In the end, the sun rose again, and so did I. Cleaning the sweat and vomit from the mat, I began to rebuild. I was weak at first, on all accounts, but I grew stronger everyday. The furniture was replaced with weights, a punching bag, and a jump rope. I started running, something I had always despised, and found peace in it, navigating a strange and breathtaking land.
I fell, but I rose. Just as the sun did now. A covenant made with me, it seemed. To illuminate or burn, kill or grow, heal or destroy. I would choose all of the above, and give the hell of it all to my enemies.
Running on Empty
Empty stomach cardio was one thing, but running on zero sleep was pushing it. I knelt down and double knotted my fully black Nike running shoes before standing upright again and doing a few final leg and shoulder stretches. The longer I put it off, the less likely I would be to doing it. I let out a mild sigh before nodding, as if to my own stubbornness, and began jogging.
Last night had been torturous, if not very familiar. I got that hollow and heavy pit in my stomach again. I had gotten the same feeling on a handful of occasions over the years, when I was unable to find a drink, a pill, or both, before the effects of their kin had fully worn off. My body had been conditioned for twenty years to expect a steady stream of man-made assistance to get by each day. I couldn’t begin to blame it for feeling helpless to cope on its own, but neither could I go back to who I once was. Whoever I was then, I can never be again; for better or worse.
I rounded a sharp curve on the country road, getting a bit lost in the calm majesty of the Japanese Maples, their leafs almost in slow motion against the humid breeze. I felt strong again, truly. Before, I allowed a handful of pain pills to cover up two decades of wear and tear, twelve hour drives and sixteen hour flights, powerbombs to the canvas and backdrops to the floor. A false sense of security swam through my veins, among other things, as I allowed my foolish pride and miserable dedication to the sport that I loved to get me to the next town.
This was different, because I was different. I actually listened to my doctors this time, and got much needed surgery on my left knee and shoulder. If I was coming back, I wanted it to be at my best. Sober, healthy, and reborn. To rise up with a full heart, and bury my opponents in the grave I had finally climbed out of.
I lifted my right arm high and waved at the old man tending to his garden. He returned my wave in kind, with the addition of a bright smile. He had given me water to drink and a chair to sit in when my recovery was in its infancy and running was still a daunting and terrible undertaking. It had been nearly eight months since we had sat and he spoke to me in terrific English while I mastered the art of inhaling water and air without drowning on his front porch.
I shook my head at my resistance to the thought that I would miss this place, these people, this peace; but I would, and if I was honest, I was anxious to step out of what had become my comfort zone. The highways, hotels, and airports were long ago places where I could go off the map, find a drink, a pill, and a woman to help me navigate another day, another night. This wasn’t going to be easy, but they say nothing worth having is.
So, I’ll keep moving, keep losing sleep, keep drawing closer to another victory, small or large, title or non-title. I will keep moving, like the Devil, seeking whom he may devour.
The Burning Lotus
The bar wouldn’t be opened for many hours, but I knew the owner always showed up early to make sure the closers had cleaned up properly and to take a daily inventory. His Father, when he was alive, would walk a few blocks away and buy a bag of organic lemons, limes, oranges, and cherries for the cacophony of mixed drinks young men would order because they hadn’t yet acquired the good taste of a man, and the sugary cocktails the girls loved because they couldn’t taste any alcohol; especially after the first two.
The front door would be locked, naturally, but I knew the side exit door could be set ajar by a loud round of applause after a stunning karaoke rendition of “Faithfully” by Journey. It opened easily and I pulled it slowly shut behind me as I stepped inside. Something low and melancholy drifted from the speakers, a tune from another timeline where Morrisey ended up fronting Neutral Milk Hotel.
Joe Akada looked exactly as I saw him the last night I was in Tokyo; thin, fit, stylish, and a stitch away from walking out and never looking back. Nothing much had changed about the place, save for the repairs they made after I nearly burned it to the ground.
I approached the bar and eased into one of the low-back, red-leather stools. The quiet squeak of the material gave me away.
“We’re not open until two, friend. Come back then.”
Joe turned around from the register and a look of anger and confusion flushed his face. I dropped my eye line from his and struggled for words; something I had never had trouble finding much before.
“Long time, Joe.”
For his part, Joe regained his composure and leaned against the metal railing that separated him from too many bottles to count. He crossed his arms and exhaled sharply, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Well, F**k me. It’s true isn’t it?”
There was no reason to act coy, we both knew quite well what he meant.
“Yeah.”
He squinted at me for a moment before letting half a smile take his lips.
“You know, Julie told me you had sobered up, but try as I may, I couldn’t bring myself to believe it.”
Julie was his sister. We had a thing once, but I was a footshooter and she was tired of the ringing in her ears. To say she was too good for me would be an understatement, to say the least.
“But here you are, in the flesh. You look ten years younger, I swear.”
I smirked and shook off the compliment.
“She said you found Jesus, or Buddha, or something.”
I let out a slight chuckle.
“Well, she was right about one thing. I am sober, but I haven’t come across any of those fellas.”
There were grins out of courtesy and broken eye contact from the awkwardness I had brought inside, along with a fly that landed on Joe’s left shoulder. After what seemed like hours, but was likely only a few moments, he took a deep breath and let it ease slowly out of his nostrils.
“You really put me in a tough spot, Sean. I didn’t want to call the cops that night. You know that right?”
I hung my head for a few seconds before raising it again and nodding in agreement.
“Yeah, I know that, Joe. You did what needed to be done.”
He was taken aback by my admittance of guilt and even more by the swiftness at which it left my mouth. His face softened a bit and let some tension fall from his shoulders.
“F**k, you are sober.”
We shared a long, warm laugh. The kind of laugh that diffuses just about anything. Joe stepped up to the bar and extended his right hand. I thought to accept his handshake, but went inside my well-worn black leather motorcycle jacket, returning from it with a yellow envelope straining to keep the contents enclosed. I put the envelope in his outstretched hand and stood up from my stool.
“What’s this?”
Joe gave me a curious look.
“That’s what you paid to fix this place up again, plus a tip.”
He weighed it in his hand and his lips pursed, as if he was impressed.
“A tip? What for?”
I extended my hand and Joe let the envelope thud on the bar top before shaking my hand.
“For keeping the Devil company, when no one else wanted him around.”
Holy Scalpers
I made another meeting, an odd feeling of pride that I hadn’t missed one since I sobered up. With that pride came a tinge of shame, that was only diluted down by the amount of anxiety that shuddered up my stomach and rattled down my spine. I hadn’t gathered the nerve to speak even once yet, and saw no evidence of that changing anytime soon. But I was here, again, and my head was clear, though my heart stayed stoned on a past I hadn’t begun to live down.
An industrial size ceiling fan lazily rounded the off-white drop ceiling tiles, slow enough to question if it had just been turned off, and if not, what purpose could it possibly be serving at such a crawl. Beads of sweat ran from my temple and took various paths through the thick black and greying hair of my beard. If I wasn’t so vain, I’d shave it and probably shed tears of joy at the relief. One problem at a time, I suppose.
A terrifically old Japanese man rambled on in a voice that couldn’t be considered gruff, smiling every few sentences, his passion evident in any language, much like the sweat soaking his white wife beater and button-up shirt. I couldn’t help but be drawn in my his words, so wise and so sweet, rocking these addicts into some warm and wet sense of security; addicts like me. He spoke of regret as if it was a blessing. Twenty-nine years of snorting cocaine and all of the hazards that accompanied it, he suffered in retrospect joyfully, now a testimony to God’s grace and providence. His Wife left him for a man who would kill her and his two daughters less than a year later, and he was three weeks late to the funeral, hearing the news long before he could feel his face, let alone the misery, thick like the present humidity.
What a perspective to have, thankful for it all, because it brought him to his knees, so he could grow strong enough to stand again to his feet. God has a plan, he said, a stern and brilliant revelation burning behind his clear eyes. I wondered if God’s plan was for me to was to be a living, breathing example of what not to do. I wondered if God was something we created when there’s no one real that could stomach us another chance. I wondered if God knew He wasn’t real. I wondered if I could ever even believe in me.
The old man bowed his head and began the Serenity Prayer, which was my cue to slip out before anyone tried to talk to me or shake my hand; what it must be like to be a normal human being. I let out an audible sigh of relief as the heavy, steel door swung open and a slight breeze brushed my skin. I fluffed my black t-shirt repeatedly at the chest, allowing some much needed air to cool my torso.
I could see the Tokyo Dome off in the distance, tall and magnificent like a mountain rising up out of the sea. Goosebumps developed all over my body, and despite the heat, a shiver overtook me; it was still as important as the first time I saw it, nearly fifteen years ago. I may not have believed in God, but I had been worshipping at this church since I saw my first New Japan show on VHS in 1994.
Communion would be taken, wine for the blood I would draw from Shuggy’s mouth and nose, bread for his bones I would break; ah, how I can hear his misery sing out through the choir of the audience. The sermon will be as old as time and memorial, a man’s sin and the payment in full, as I rain down hellfire and brimstone on Shuggy’s Scottish soul. Will he pray to me or God, or will there even be a difference once the bell tolls for a reckoning? The Devil is in Tokyo, young man, and even God himself can’t find a ticket when Sean Casey is on the marquee. The question isn’t if you burn, but to what degree? I am gentleman, sober on drugs and alcohol, but drunk on the violence to come.
A Lit Torch
I climbed to the top rope, the work of dozens of good men and women buzzing along with my own heartbeat in my ears. My legs trimmered a bit as I balanced myself and stood erect on the top turnbuckle; evidence of a workout in the ring that I had pushed too hard and too long. My tongue was begging for a drink and my body felt strong, if not thoroughly tested. Two Japanese girls chatted in an upbeat manner as they tirelessly set up chairs for the big event, credentials swinging to and fro from their necks as they put their back into the work at hand. Several crew members went about the tedious task of setting up the stage area, one stood, hand on hips, barking orders to the others, but in a supportive way.
Suddenly, I was taken back to my first match in this monstrous dome. April 1st, 2003. I was still a brash boy, fighting for a spot amongst hardened men. A ball of violence, still, but still learning how to channel it into something constructive and worthwhile.
I was no April fool, I knew I only had one opportunity to make a lasting first impression. So, I downed my opponent with a delayed brainbuster and bounded to the top rope. I was six years into a career that was built on a foundation of technical wrestling. Just looking at the top rope would get you an extra two miles added onto the next morning’s run; but I wasn’t in Calgary anymore. I took a deep breath and flipped backwards, landing a picture-perfect moonsault on my opponent, our chests colliding, he cried out in anguish and his breath couldn’t find him before the referee counted to three.
I came through the curtain and was met with some mild applause from the other wrestlers, but was quickly snagged by my right elbow and pulled into a storage room. It was the promoter and he seemed much less thrilled by my debut.
“What the hell was that?”
I was a bit taken aback. The crowd had been hot for my match and I had won in convincing fashion.
“Were you trained by the Harts or the Guerreros?”
I let out a sharp sigh before nodding my head.
“You’re right, Mr. Usaka. I guess I felt that I needed to stand out. I apologize.”
He patted me on the shoulder and grinned.
“You already do stand out, Sean. Your technical skill defies your age. You don’t need to be flashy and take such risks. You got over with that crowd by out wrestling your opponent and punishing him. Any kid with a trampoline can learn to do a moonsault, but what you do can’t be taught, only unlocked from within you. Understand?”
I nodded my hand and gave a half smile.
“Thank you, Mr. Usaka.”
I couldn’t help to smile now at the memory. I learned so much in Japan, in this dome. I recalled some of the Scotsman’s words from an earlier viewing of his promo, that this place was spiritual to me. I didn’t know if that word best captured how I felt here, but the intention was true. There was something intangible about this arena, something dark and light at the same time; a balance perhaps, and I was searching for solid ground.
I leaned down and grabbed the top rope on either side of the turnbuckle before dropping my feet back down to the canvas. I turned and for the first time in days, noticed the two cameramen that had been following me for weeks now, documenting what Lila Sleater had assured me would be the most inspiring film the WFWF had ever produced: The Second Coming of Sean Casey, she had excitedly titled it. I had winced at the name, but tried to make the best of her good intentions.
I walked to the center of the ring, pulling my black t-shirt over my head and shaking the sweat from my hair as I tossed the drenched clothing to the mat outside the ring. I had been silent for so long, I wondered if I even remembered how to properly give my opponent an advanced warning.
“You had a lot of flattering things to say about me, Shuggy, and I have to thank you for the kind words. All of it true, of course, but as I start this journey again, this time with a clear mind, it helps to be reminded that my legacy is as well remembered as it was earned.
I was your age when I debuted here. I had been brought into Japan with much more than the lukewarm one-year contract that you have been generously given. I was a technical prodigy, trained well by the Harts, but with a mean streak that they couldn’t conceive of.
As far as I can gather, you’re not much more than a favor from Lila Sleater to your buddy, Joe Bishop. But getting your foot in the door is where the favor seems to have ended, because now you find yourself against the greatest wrestler in the world. The Violent Gentleman...and a sober one to boot.”
A passing trainer caught my eye and tosses a small towel to me, which I caught and dabbed at my forehead and neck, before laying it across my right shoulder and bringing my attention back to the cameraman.
“You say you’re on a bit of a lucky streak. Isn’t the saying, ‘the luck of the Irish’, Shuggy? Yeah. Maybe you have, ‘the pipe dream of the Scottish’? Sounds more like it. Believe whatever trope you need to gather up the nerve to stand across the ring from the Devil of Professional Wrestling. Luck is what losers hope for when they haven’t properly prepared, haven’t paid their dues, haven’t earned the right to be where they are. On second thought, perhaps you’re the luckiest man on earth.
I’m not going to mince words, Shuggy. I’m going to hurt you. Not because this is a physical and dangerous sport, which it is, but because that’s what I do. I tear ligaments, I broke bones, I pop joints from their sockets. I’m going to see to it that you suffer slowly and to the extent that you will rethink your position here in the WFWF.”
I walked towards the cameraman, who dropped down from the apron and onto the outside mat as I reached the ropes, resting my forearms along the top and leaning into the rope, peering down into the lens.
“I’m going to show you that there is a world of difference between who I have become and who you are. I questioned the wisdom of the WFWF pitting you against me, especially in the Tokyo Dome in my return match, but now I think I’m starting to understand. This isn’t an audition for the roster, Shuggy, it’s a test. Can you endure a beating from a man like me? Will you wake up the morning after our match, whimpering in pain, and make that melancholy call to Lila Sleater and let her know that you bit off more than you could possibly chew? Or will you take your licks, retreat back to that sad, beautiful isle and take in a lesson well earned?
Under this dome, Shuggy, you can not win. This will not be your night, your breakout performance, or even something to be proud of. It will be hell, kid, and you will burn. The only question will be, will the flames consume you, or burn you just enough so you appreciate those Scottish winds?”
I dont know good luck 
