Post by The Gangsta on Jul 17, 2018 22:55:28 GMT -5
Ante Whitner RP
Past Wounds
"Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead.” -Philippians 3:13
December 31, 2015
Seattle, WA
“Hurry, hurry, the ball’s gonna drop!” said the hooker getting off of my lap.
She quickly takes a hit of the geeb that was laying on the table next to me before she leaves the room. I feel the rhythm of the club music downstairs going up and down my legs as I lay paralyzed with quite possibly, the best high of my life.
It’s New Years and this is my first New Year’s Party with Donnie and Sam. Donnie thought it would be a great idea to set up ultraviolet lights for his “annual” acid trip and invite as many townies as possible. He claims it’s some sort of tradition he has, but I think it’s just an excuse to drop a tab without us worrying about him. I regain feeling in my legs as I try to get up for the ball drop. I hear people chanting numbers in the 30’s and 20’s as it feels like a lifetime to stumble down the steps. By the time I get down, it’ll be 2017.
“Finally! You’re gonna miss it, hurry!” says the hooker as she maneuvers her way through the congregation at the center of the dance floor.
Everyone’s drunk, high, or both, staring at the giant TV Sam and I picked up last week. The ultraviolet lights f**k with my eyes as I try to watch the countdown. The white shirts, the naked Thai chicks, and Donnie’s bald white head stick out like sore thumbs in the crowd of Seattle punks and junkies, all for a f**king countdown to another miserable year.
I stand still, buggin’ out and attempting to get out of the crowd the hooker pulled me into. As I try to escape, I feel a small hand touch my waist. It’s Donnie, baked off of his tiny brain, accompanied by two of the junkie girls that he feeds weed to like cattle. I don’t see him for a second his bright white head pops out in between the guys next to me.
“How are you doing?” says Donnie, looking up at me and jumping up to try and pat me on my shoulder.
“F**ckin’ gone, haha.” I reply.
“That’s good, you earned it. Kyzer rots in hell because of you.”
Donnie points up at the map of the Korean peninsula that he whipped out a few months back in his “war room”. I can barely remember what happened, only that Donnie got the map from Dennis Rodman who got it from Kim Jong-un who got it from his grandfather in a cave. I also remember that he referred to Rodman as “the Worm”. Strange.
“I’m gonna go back towards the front, just wanted to check up on you. I know you had Jade with you upstairs, haha.” says Donnie.
“She was pretty fun.” I reply.
“Definitely. I’ll see you after the ball drops kid.”
Donnie disappears back into the crowd as the chants start getting closer to one. I maneuver in and out of the crowd, pushing a few dudes out of the way. Another one of Donnie’s whores grabs my crotch and winks as I exit. I go towards the bar, away from the crowd and the disgustingly-obnoxious ultraviolet lights. The chants end and “Happy New Year”s ring out across the floor. The whores are popping champagne bottles on the stage with Donnie chugging the s**t out of one as he slaps their asses.
“First one, right?” says Samael, as he approaches me from the other side of the bar.
“With Donnie? Yeah.” I reply.
“Well, it’s loud to say the least. Crossed?”
“Yeah.”
Sam nods and reaches from beyond the counter and grabs a water bottle. He slides it down the bar top, hitting my folded arms and falling over. I pop it open and take a big swig of it.
“Sips, please.” laughs Samael, drinking a glass of scotch on the rocks.
“Thanks.” I reply.
“No problem, just don’t kill yourself out there.”
Sam starts to walk away from the bar, but forgets his drink. He backtracks right away and grabs it, laughing as he does so.
“Go to the back and get some air, you look like a zombie.” says Samael, walking away.
He’s right. I start moving towards the back, bumping past some locals I’ve recognized from past parties. They all say hello and congratulate me on the win against Kyzer in Japan. The amount of congratulations for beating Kyzer only makes me feel all the less worthless like he didn’t put in his 100% and neither did I. Part of me thinks the match was half-luck, half-show and the other part thinks it was a complete surprise. Either way, I’m not satisfied.
I get into the back, stumbling through the door and out onto the snow. I faceplant, get up, and wipe away the frigid snow from my face. It’s not like the fresh white snow, but more like the grimy, grey, black snow that street sweepers pick up during blizzards in Manhattan. I feel the dirt and pieces of concrete fall off my face as I get up, hearing a slight chuckle from the alley.
I look up and see It’s Tugarin. Everyone knows Tugarin is characteristically non-verbal, only saying cheesy warrior lines in response to Donnie’s absurd requests. For example, if Donnie asked him to “take out” a friend of his, Tugarin would say “I’ll do as you please, master” or something like that.
“Never heard you chuckle before big guy, haha.” I say.
Tugarin’s laughter stops and it’s silence. He walks closer to me, helping me up as I try to regain balance. I hear his heavy breathing as he wraps his arm around mine and pulls up. As I get to my feet, he pats me on the shoulder and starts to walk away.
“Tugarin!” I yell.
His head turns ever so slightly towards mine.
“Thanks.” I say.
Tugarin looks down and nods his head. He clenches his fist and lets out a big huff. F**k, is he gonna beat the s**t out of me?
“When you’re down, I will help you get up, whenever and wherever.” says Tugarin in a deep and menacing voice.
Tugarin opens the door and heads back inside. The door slams and I get startled a little bit. I fall back into the snow pile and smile, listening to the vibration of the door from the loud music inside. I breathe in and out slowly, assuring myself that this upcoming year will be fine and not as bloody and pain-ridden as 2015 was. I take out a cigarette and light it up, thinking about what Tugarin had said.
“When you’re down, I will help you get up, whenever and wherever.” I say to myself.
Tugarin’s re-assurance, along with the burning cigarette, release all fear and anxiety about the upcoming year. The fear of Kyzer returning to take my head and the smell of title victories moving further away are all gone.
2016 is going to be my year.
“To save you a little time in reading up on the Ante Whitner novella, 2016 was NOT my year.
At that point in time, I was never more hopeful and unfortunately for me, my exact fears came true. Kyzer came back to beat me, every title opportunity since Nikki Dean has been rubbish, and to top it off, the KoKaine Konspiracy was no more. It was broken, torn apart by our own selfish ambitions. Samael floated with the wind, Donnie disappeared, and Tugarin, well, Tugarin is Tugarin. In fact, at the New Year’s Party at Donnie’s, it was the last time I had ever seen him.
It was also the last time all of us were together.
Breakups suck, man. Two years is a long time without seeing someone. I’m still banking on the day I see my older brother, even though we haven’t spoken in a decade. I have hope today, more hope than yesterday, and more hope than I had when I spoke to Tugarin last. It pains me to fight him, but it pains me more if I don’t change him, if I don’t redeem him for his sake. Tugarin’s lost, broken just like I once was. I pray there’s something I can do.
A lot has changed in two years and when I say a lot, I mean it. I can go on a whole spiel about my road to atonement and redemption, but this match is personal to me and I bet it is to Tugarin. This is about us, what we once were and what we want to be in the future. This match is against someone I once called a friend and a brother, which I hope he still accepts.
If there was no Tugarin Zmey in the Konspiracy, there would be no rock, no ledge to leap off of.
Now here I am, facing the ledge, questioning if I should jump or not.”
June 25, 2018
Dell City, TX
I drop my luggage at the front door of the apartment, making a loud thud. I walk into the kitchen and grab an apple to eat. It’s 1 AM and let’s just say the Uber that was supposed to take me home never showed up. My arms and legs are aching from the long flight back from Boston. It’s splendid to think my first match back in the WFWF was not only just a victory, but a step forward in the right direction or dare I say, “righteous” direction. I like to make myself laugh sometimes.
I roll into my bed after devouring my apple, clothes and all, trying to get an ounce of sleep. After twisting and turning a few times, I take the Bible laying at bedside and begin reading where I left off. Before I travelled to Boston for Breakout, I finished Ephesians and Galatians, continuing my trend of reading the Bible chronologically. Now, I’m up to Philippians, which I always mistake for the Philippines. Philippians is the one book I’ve never touched on, as a kid or as an adult. It’s a book of Paul and Timothy’s missionary journey to Greece, specifically Philippi.
As I touch on Philippians 3:13, I get a buzz on my cell phone. It’s Paulina, my girlfriend. Paulina’s an amazing woman, devout and beautiful. I met her at my first ever Bible study back in April and finally got the nerve to ask her out a month later. Paulina was coming from an abusive relationship with a hillbilly truck driver at the time, finding God instead to heal her wounds, much like myself. Perhaps it’s why we connected so well, but I like to think it’s God’s work.
“Hey hon’.” says Paulina.
“Hey, what you doing up so late?” I reply.
“I’ve just been watching TV, didn’t even realize the time. How was your flight?”
“It was alright, we didn’t takeoff for an extra thirty minutes. I literally just got home.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“S**t, that sucks.”
Paulina lives on the outskirts of town, working as a waitress for the luxurious restaurant downtown. I forget the name of it, but she’s promised to take me there one day after work. Perhaps that’s what she’s calling about.
“Yeah, it does. Anyways, calling for a love song? Haha.” I ask.
“No, no, something else actually.” says Paulina.
“What is it?”
“Do you have your laptop?”
Weird question. Why does she need my laptop?
“Yes, why?” I ask.
“There’s something you need to see. Go on the WFWF website.” replies Paulina.
That’s not a good sign whatsoever. Paulina hates my job with a passion, citing it as “barbaric” and “brutal” to the human body. Although she’s partly correct, she respects my decision to redeem the wrestlers that are lost and spin my learnings at Bible study into something impactful. But, she never goes on WFWF.com, nor pays attention to any news. This can’t be good.
“Alright, lemme grab it.” I say.
I rummage through my backpack and pull out my Mac. Pretty new, nice, thin, silver, what you expect in something that probably costs more than it should be. I enter my password, open up Chrome, and type in WFWF.com. Last time I went on there, I gave an interview to Kay Fabe, the online editor and reporter. It’s been a while that it doesn’t pop up in my search history.
“Do you see it?” says Paulina.
“Nah, just something about the next card.” I say.
I’m scheduled to fight Mesh at the next show. For those who don’t know, Mesh is the teenage weeaboo, hipster, vlogger girl that’s addicted to social media more than a chain smoker’s addicted to cigarettes. I remember someone backstage, possibly Kay, telling me that I was going to fight her.
“That’s it, click on it.” she says.
I go ahead and click on the article. The first thing that pops up is “WFWF presents Second to None [UPDATED]” and I begin to feel butterflies in my stomach.
“Updated?” I say over the phone.
“Keep scrolling.” says Paulina.
And boom, that’s when I see it: Ante Whitner vs. Tugarin Zmey. Jesus Christ.
“Tugarin?”
“I recognized the name immediately. You told me about the New Year’s thing with him yesterday.” she says.
“Yeah, what the-, why am I fighting him?"
Two years after the breakup and my past still continues to haunt me. I immediately think of the benefits and consequences to facing him, victorious or not. One, it puts closure on our relationship. Two, I can get seriously hurt and he won’t even have a scratch. Three, maybe we can team up again.
And four, redemption.
“I don’t know, I just heard about it at work and-” says Paulina.
“I can’t believe it.” I say.
“Yeah.”
“Alright, I’m gonna go to bed now, I need to sleep on this.”
“Alrighty, goodnight. I love you.”
“Love you too, bye.”
I throw my cell phone onto the bed in frustration. I love facing challenges head on, but facing the past, hell, it’s hard. I can never escape it, never outrun it. The KoKaine Konspiracy, for what it’s worth, was never with me in it. I was always on the outside, an observer looking in. Kyzer was my rock and leaning on him as his protege was more important to me than membership into a gang I wasn’t entirely sure of. The Donnie and Tugarin dynamic is what drew me away, seeing how the two worked together like Sauron and Orcs.
But, Tugarin alone terrifies me.
The Next Day
St. Antonio’s Parish
Dell City, TX
“Raw, unchained, untamed anger. I’m angry, not at the situation, but at myself. I’m angry that circumstances place me in front of one of my former allies. I’m angry that I have to redeem him when I don’t know what there is to redeem.” I say, kneeling in the church pew closest to the altar.
I barely slept last night, twisting and turning over the thought of encountering Tugarin after two years. I got maybe a few solid hours of shuteye and I still wake up at the crack of dawn for a morning prayer. This morning’s different, however. Frustration and anger leads me here: the church that isn’t supposed to be open for another three hours.
My hands are clapped against each other furiously. I’m shaking, trying to maintain my cool in the empty, dark chapel. The only lights are the reflections of the painted glass from sunrise, shades of red, blue, green, and purple. It’s beautiful, yes, but the obnoxious red beams inch closer and closer towards me as the sun continues to rise. Anger, frustration, raw.
“Lord, I have sinned, you know that. I have sinned on numerous occasions, but this...this is a sin I cannot commit. This is envy and wrath, the deadliest of the seven. I can’t face him, I just can’t.” I say.
I hear a noise towards the entrance of the church and turn around. It’s Bishop Will, startled at my presence.
“How the hell did you get in here?” says Bishop Will.
“Father John told me about the key in the back.” I reply.
Bishop Will slowly walks closer to me. He’s draped in the typical black priest attire with his large-framed glasses and crooked smile becoming more apparent to me. Bishop Will, compared to the other priests and deacons who work here, is the most cynical and wise. I label him as the most cynical, but he claims he’s just a realist which, to some extent, is pretty true. Bishop Will believes in atheists and gays having a place in heaven, abortion as an act of free will, and equality among the sexes. He’s different, but I like it. He’s more balanced and less nuance, which is something the Catholic church needs more nowadays.
“Really?” he replies.
“Yeah, just in case I needed a special morning prayer.” I say.
Bishop Will throws his keys on the altar and proceeds to sit with me. Just when I thought the altar was something sacred, he throws dirty car keys onto it like a regular coffee table.
“And what’s so special about today?”
“It’s about wrestling.”
He sighs.
“Seriously?” he says.
“Wasn’t it you that told me to pursue a return back?” I ask.
“I would never say that. Must’ve been Father John.”
Now that I think about it, Father John was the one who handed me the slip last month. My golden ticket back to the squared circle.
“Yeah, nevermind.” I say.
Bishop Will takes out the hymn book from the pew and scrolls through the pages. He keeps flipping, searching for something.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for a hymn about pain, something you may be a fan of.”
The only hymns I can think of are “Be Patient” and “Some Day”. They’re songs of pain, grief, and suffering, the first hymns I read when I came here. They were the only ones that soothed me and ironically, it was Bishop Will that showed me them. He finally flips to a page and lands his pointer finger on it.
“Read this one. It’s called ‘Sail On’.” says Bishop Will.
I glance over the lyrics from left to right. “Upon a wide and stormy sea, Thou’rt sailing to eternity, And thy great admiral orders thee: Sail on! Sail on! Sail on!” I continue reading, flipping the pages over and over. “Art far from shore, and weary worn, The sky o’ercast, thy canvas torn? Hark ye! a voice to thee is borne: Sail on! Sail on! Sail on!” I read it over a second time and then a third and a fourth. I’m the admiral, commanding myself to sail on despite the obstacles and harsh weather.
“I, I didn’t even tell you what was wrong.” I say.
“You don’t need to.” he says.
Bishop Will gets up and turns on the lights and fans. I’ve been here for a half hour and barely realized how much I was sweating until I read the hymn.
“This hymn, would you say I’m the admiral?”
“Of course. You’re also the overcast sky and the stormy sea.”
He begins pouring the church wine into the chalice and walking back over to me with it. He starts drinking it, almost in a sacreligious way that makes me uncomfortable.
“Why this hymn? Why does-”
“I’ve done a bunch of communions and confirmations with this hymn at the forefront. For those sticking with the parish, they’ve heard it plenty like a pop song. But to me, this hymn encapsulates what it means to be the dimwitted fighter you are.”
Oh, and did I mention he hates my career? Bishop Will’s the only one I can count on for that, besides my girlfriend at times.
“I’m not dimwitted Father.” I say.
“I know, but every fighter is fighting for something. I know you fight for redemption and atonement, but whoever you’re worried about, they’re fighting for something different. To me, that’s dimwitted and stupidity at its core. To you, that’s nature and the clash of ideals.”
I disagree.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because the man I’m fighting is someone I once called a brother.”
Bishop Will gets up and pours more wine. Jesus, he drank that so fast.
“And?”
“It’s facing my past. It terrifies me.”
He puts the chalice back down and returns to the pew. He sits, plopping to the seat.
“You face your past every single day Ante.” says Bishop Will.
“I know that.” I reply.
“If you do, then why are you here?”
“Because it’s a part of my past I wish I could forget.”
“Wishing we could forget is absurd. Wishing we could remember and grow from our experiences is what shapes us. It’s the glue that prevents us from breaking and crumbling.”
I look down at my knees as I get up from the bench. Bishop Will smiles.
“I used to stand where you kneel.”
Bishop Will grabs my hand. I feel the residue from the wine drip into my palm.
“I thought the church was fake and folly because of who I loved and how God condemned it. My parents brought me to mass every Sunday to ‘cure’ me and rid me of my sin. I wore a cross on my necklace every day for years, only to realize that the turmoil experienced in the past is what truly shaped me.”
He gets up and goes for the wine again. He slugs it down fast.
“I mean, isn’t the Catholic church inherently homosexual? All we do is pray to men and occasionally sing songs to Jesus’s mom.” laughs Bishop Will.
He’s right. Isn’t the WFWF inherently homosexual too?
“Yeah, haha.” I laugh.
He walks back over, instead standing over the pew with the chalice in his hand.
“But, you do understand me, right? You must ‘sail on’ and forgive the past for what it’s done to you. Whatever past is coming back to haunt you is something you should take with a grain of salt, something you shouldn’t tread lightly past.”
“What if it’s a giant, menacing, dragon beast?” I ask.
Bishop Will nearly spits out his wine.
“Then redeem him you will, haha. Peace be with you Ante, I got to set up for morning mass and if you’re here, then you’re revealing the magic behind God’s word.”
I emerge from the pew, refreshed and ready to take on the day.
“Peace be with you Father. Thank you.”
Bishop Will nods and waves me away, walking slowly towards the back room. I trot out of the church down the main aisle. My steps clack as I pass the blue and green lights from the glass panes.
I push open the large wooden doors into the piercing sunlight. I gaze at the parking lot and see a figure, leaning on their car. It’s a very nice car, expensive from the looks of it. As I move closer, I begin to recognize the figure leaning.
“Forgive me Father! I have sinned, haha!” says Elijah, jokingly waving his arms in the air.
Once you tread on the path of redemption, the past hits you at all corners, guns blazing.
I'm always where the sun don't shine. The tears don't show, because my heart's been broke. I hate myself, but it won't show and I constantly lose all my remorse. But, it's ten for the wolf, three for the shepherd, and it’s one for the sheep who, led by your leopard, gave his perception as a handle of weapon. Take a bite of your apple, Tugarin. Give me all you can offer now as I'm trapped in a changing maze, setting my soul ablaze.
My soul’s in inferno, raging with the fiery redemption I crave. I crave it for you, almighty Tugarin. You, my precious apple, stare at my fruit with the greedy eyes of self-worth and pride. Almighty dragon, you are my past, my dear friend that I must save for the sake of atonement and righteousness in the eyes of the Lord.
Heartless is recklessness and it's war with the pacifist to the word of a masochist. You’re off of the map, Tugarin. You spoke to me, fangs shown, telling me to take what I crave and what you crave is already yours. But it’s not yours, friend. It never was.
What you crave is solace, silent and sweet. You seek an end to your means, an end to the road we set ourselves upon. But my Lord, I spoke to a baphomet for his redemption and all he did was smile, taken aback. I stared at him for countless days and nights until I realized I was staring at the enemy. The enemy is my friend. It’s you, mighty Zmey.
You’re the baphomet, something so unearthly and hellfire that brimstone can’t cure the flame. Speak to me and let the words heal your soul. Tug on it, set yourself free with a path that isn’t as laden with kerosine and smoke. Take a path of redemption, pouring water on your singed wounds with the sweet sound of setting your soul ablaze instead. If your soul is ablaze, then the body heals and builds itself to something better. It shapes you, much like the past and forgiveness of our sins committed in unison.
We are one, Tugarin. Follow the Lord’s prayers and my footsteps to unlock your true self. The “beast” is dead, the man lives! At “Second to None”, Tugarin Zmey will be known as the righteous, almighty man, redeemed of his past sins and redeemed of his devilish livelihood. You will emerge a different man, old friend. You will emerge with me, amongst the ash and smoke as a partner, as a friend renewed. Do this and you shall be spared Tugarin. Saved, reborn, touched.
When you’re down, I will help you get up, whenever and wherever.
"Jesus replied: No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for service in the kingdom of God.” -Luke 9:62
Past Wounds
"Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead.” -Philippians 3:13
December 31, 2015
Seattle, WA
“Hurry, hurry, the ball’s gonna drop!” said the hooker getting off of my lap.
She quickly takes a hit of the geeb that was laying on the table next to me before she leaves the room. I feel the rhythm of the club music downstairs going up and down my legs as I lay paralyzed with quite possibly, the best high of my life.
It’s New Years and this is my first New Year’s Party with Donnie and Sam. Donnie thought it would be a great idea to set up ultraviolet lights for his “annual” acid trip and invite as many townies as possible. He claims it’s some sort of tradition he has, but I think it’s just an excuse to drop a tab without us worrying about him. I regain feeling in my legs as I try to get up for the ball drop. I hear people chanting numbers in the 30’s and 20’s as it feels like a lifetime to stumble down the steps. By the time I get down, it’ll be 2017.
“Finally! You’re gonna miss it, hurry!” says the hooker as she maneuvers her way through the congregation at the center of the dance floor.
Everyone’s drunk, high, or both, staring at the giant TV Sam and I picked up last week. The ultraviolet lights f**k with my eyes as I try to watch the countdown. The white shirts, the naked Thai chicks, and Donnie’s bald white head stick out like sore thumbs in the crowd of Seattle punks and junkies, all for a f**king countdown to another miserable year.
I stand still, buggin’ out and attempting to get out of the crowd the hooker pulled me into. As I try to escape, I feel a small hand touch my waist. It’s Donnie, baked off of his tiny brain, accompanied by two of the junkie girls that he feeds weed to like cattle. I don’t see him for a second his bright white head pops out in between the guys next to me.
“How are you doing?” says Donnie, looking up at me and jumping up to try and pat me on my shoulder.
“F**ckin’ gone, haha.” I reply.
“That’s good, you earned it. Kyzer rots in hell because of you.”
Donnie points up at the map of the Korean peninsula that he whipped out a few months back in his “war room”. I can barely remember what happened, only that Donnie got the map from Dennis Rodman who got it from Kim Jong-un who got it from his grandfather in a cave. I also remember that he referred to Rodman as “the Worm”. Strange.
“I’m gonna go back towards the front, just wanted to check up on you. I know you had Jade with you upstairs, haha.” says Donnie.
“She was pretty fun.” I reply.
“Definitely. I’ll see you after the ball drops kid.”
Donnie disappears back into the crowd as the chants start getting closer to one. I maneuver in and out of the crowd, pushing a few dudes out of the way. Another one of Donnie’s whores grabs my crotch and winks as I exit. I go towards the bar, away from the crowd and the disgustingly-obnoxious ultraviolet lights. The chants end and “Happy New Year”s ring out across the floor. The whores are popping champagne bottles on the stage with Donnie chugging the s**t out of one as he slaps their asses.
“First one, right?” says Samael, as he approaches me from the other side of the bar.
“With Donnie? Yeah.” I reply.
“Well, it’s loud to say the least. Crossed?”
“Yeah.”
Sam nods and reaches from beyond the counter and grabs a water bottle. He slides it down the bar top, hitting my folded arms and falling over. I pop it open and take a big swig of it.
“Sips, please.” laughs Samael, drinking a glass of scotch on the rocks.
“Thanks.” I reply.
“No problem, just don’t kill yourself out there.”
Sam starts to walk away from the bar, but forgets his drink. He backtracks right away and grabs it, laughing as he does so.
“Go to the back and get some air, you look like a zombie.” says Samael, walking away.
He’s right. I start moving towards the back, bumping past some locals I’ve recognized from past parties. They all say hello and congratulate me on the win against Kyzer in Japan. The amount of congratulations for beating Kyzer only makes me feel all the less worthless like he didn’t put in his 100% and neither did I. Part of me thinks the match was half-luck, half-show and the other part thinks it was a complete surprise. Either way, I’m not satisfied.
I get into the back, stumbling through the door and out onto the snow. I faceplant, get up, and wipe away the frigid snow from my face. It’s not like the fresh white snow, but more like the grimy, grey, black snow that street sweepers pick up during blizzards in Manhattan. I feel the dirt and pieces of concrete fall off my face as I get up, hearing a slight chuckle from the alley.
I look up and see It’s Tugarin. Everyone knows Tugarin is characteristically non-verbal, only saying cheesy warrior lines in response to Donnie’s absurd requests. For example, if Donnie asked him to “take out” a friend of his, Tugarin would say “I’ll do as you please, master” or something like that.
“Never heard you chuckle before big guy, haha.” I say.
Tugarin’s laughter stops and it’s silence. He walks closer to me, helping me up as I try to regain balance. I hear his heavy breathing as he wraps his arm around mine and pulls up. As I get to my feet, he pats me on the shoulder and starts to walk away.
“Tugarin!” I yell.
His head turns ever so slightly towards mine.
“Thanks.” I say.
Tugarin looks down and nods his head. He clenches his fist and lets out a big huff. F**k, is he gonna beat the s**t out of me?
“When you’re down, I will help you get up, whenever and wherever.” says Tugarin in a deep and menacing voice.
Tugarin opens the door and heads back inside. The door slams and I get startled a little bit. I fall back into the snow pile and smile, listening to the vibration of the door from the loud music inside. I breathe in and out slowly, assuring myself that this upcoming year will be fine and not as bloody and pain-ridden as 2015 was. I take out a cigarette and light it up, thinking about what Tugarin had said.
“When you’re down, I will help you get up, whenever and wherever.” I say to myself.
Tugarin’s re-assurance, along with the burning cigarette, release all fear and anxiety about the upcoming year. The fear of Kyzer returning to take my head and the smell of title victories moving further away are all gone.
2016 is going to be my year.
“To save you a little time in reading up on the Ante Whitner novella, 2016 was NOT my year.
At that point in time, I was never more hopeful and unfortunately for me, my exact fears came true. Kyzer came back to beat me, every title opportunity since Nikki Dean has been rubbish, and to top it off, the KoKaine Konspiracy was no more. It was broken, torn apart by our own selfish ambitions. Samael floated with the wind, Donnie disappeared, and Tugarin, well, Tugarin is Tugarin. In fact, at the New Year’s Party at Donnie’s, it was the last time I had ever seen him.
It was also the last time all of us were together.
Breakups suck, man. Two years is a long time without seeing someone. I’m still banking on the day I see my older brother, even though we haven’t spoken in a decade. I have hope today, more hope than yesterday, and more hope than I had when I spoke to Tugarin last. It pains me to fight him, but it pains me more if I don’t change him, if I don’t redeem him for his sake. Tugarin’s lost, broken just like I once was. I pray there’s something I can do.
A lot has changed in two years and when I say a lot, I mean it. I can go on a whole spiel about my road to atonement and redemption, but this match is personal to me and I bet it is to Tugarin. This is about us, what we once were and what we want to be in the future. This match is against someone I once called a friend and a brother, which I hope he still accepts.
If there was no Tugarin Zmey in the Konspiracy, there would be no rock, no ledge to leap off of.
Now here I am, facing the ledge, questioning if I should jump or not.”
June 25, 2018
Dell City, TX
I drop my luggage at the front door of the apartment, making a loud thud. I walk into the kitchen and grab an apple to eat. It’s 1 AM and let’s just say the Uber that was supposed to take me home never showed up. My arms and legs are aching from the long flight back from Boston. It’s splendid to think my first match back in the WFWF was not only just a victory, but a step forward in the right direction or dare I say, “righteous” direction. I like to make myself laugh sometimes.
I roll into my bed after devouring my apple, clothes and all, trying to get an ounce of sleep. After twisting and turning a few times, I take the Bible laying at bedside and begin reading where I left off. Before I travelled to Boston for Breakout, I finished Ephesians and Galatians, continuing my trend of reading the Bible chronologically. Now, I’m up to Philippians, which I always mistake for the Philippines. Philippians is the one book I’ve never touched on, as a kid or as an adult. It’s a book of Paul and Timothy’s missionary journey to Greece, specifically Philippi.
As I touch on Philippians 3:13, I get a buzz on my cell phone. It’s Paulina, my girlfriend. Paulina’s an amazing woman, devout and beautiful. I met her at my first ever Bible study back in April and finally got the nerve to ask her out a month later. Paulina was coming from an abusive relationship with a hillbilly truck driver at the time, finding God instead to heal her wounds, much like myself. Perhaps it’s why we connected so well, but I like to think it’s God’s work.
“Hey hon’.” says Paulina.
“Hey, what you doing up so late?” I reply.
“I’ve just been watching TV, didn’t even realize the time. How was your flight?”
“It was alright, we didn’t takeoff for an extra thirty minutes. I literally just got home.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“S**t, that sucks.”
Paulina lives on the outskirts of town, working as a waitress for the luxurious restaurant downtown. I forget the name of it, but she’s promised to take me there one day after work. Perhaps that’s what she’s calling about.
“Yeah, it does. Anyways, calling for a love song? Haha.” I ask.
“No, no, something else actually.” says Paulina.
“What is it?”
“Do you have your laptop?”
Weird question. Why does she need my laptop?
“Yes, why?” I ask.
“There’s something you need to see. Go on the WFWF website.” replies Paulina.
That’s not a good sign whatsoever. Paulina hates my job with a passion, citing it as “barbaric” and “brutal” to the human body. Although she’s partly correct, she respects my decision to redeem the wrestlers that are lost and spin my learnings at Bible study into something impactful. But, she never goes on WFWF.com, nor pays attention to any news. This can’t be good.
“Alright, lemme grab it.” I say.
I rummage through my backpack and pull out my Mac. Pretty new, nice, thin, silver, what you expect in something that probably costs more than it should be. I enter my password, open up Chrome, and type in WFWF.com. Last time I went on there, I gave an interview to Kay Fabe, the online editor and reporter. It’s been a while that it doesn’t pop up in my search history.
“Do you see it?” says Paulina.
“Nah, just something about the next card.” I say.
I’m scheduled to fight Mesh at the next show. For those who don’t know, Mesh is the teenage weeaboo, hipster, vlogger girl that’s addicted to social media more than a chain smoker’s addicted to cigarettes. I remember someone backstage, possibly Kay, telling me that I was going to fight her.
“That’s it, click on it.” she says.
I go ahead and click on the article. The first thing that pops up is “WFWF presents Second to None [UPDATED]” and I begin to feel butterflies in my stomach.
“Updated?” I say over the phone.
“Keep scrolling.” says Paulina.
And boom, that’s when I see it: Ante Whitner vs. Tugarin Zmey. Jesus Christ.
“Tugarin?”
“I recognized the name immediately. You told me about the New Year’s thing with him yesterday.” she says.
“Yeah, what the-, why am I fighting him?"
Two years after the breakup and my past still continues to haunt me. I immediately think of the benefits and consequences to facing him, victorious or not. One, it puts closure on our relationship. Two, I can get seriously hurt and he won’t even have a scratch. Three, maybe we can team up again.
And four, redemption.
“I don’t know, I just heard about it at work and-” says Paulina.
“I can’t believe it.” I say.
“Yeah.”
“Alright, I’m gonna go to bed now, I need to sleep on this.”
“Alrighty, goodnight. I love you.”
“Love you too, bye.”
I throw my cell phone onto the bed in frustration. I love facing challenges head on, but facing the past, hell, it’s hard. I can never escape it, never outrun it. The KoKaine Konspiracy, for what it’s worth, was never with me in it. I was always on the outside, an observer looking in. Kyzer was my rock and leaning on him as his protege was more important to me than membership into a gang I wasn’t entirely sure of. The Donnie and Tugarin dynamic is what drew me away, seeing how the two worked together like Sauron and Orcs.
But, Tugarin alone terrifies me.
The Next Day
St. Antonio’s Parish
Dell City, TX
“Raw, unchained, untamed anger. I’m angry, not at the situation, but at myself. I’m angry that circumstances place me in front of one of my former allies. I’m angry that I have to redeem him when I don’t know what there is to redeem.” I say, kneeling in the church pew closest to the altar.
I barely slept last night, twisting and turning over the thought of encountering Tugarin after two years. I got maybe a few solid hours of shuteye and I still wake up at the crack of dawn for a morning prayer. This morning’s different, however. Frustration and anger leads me here: the church that isn’t supposed to be open for another three hours.
My hands are clapped against each other furiously. I’m shaking, trying to maintain my cool in the empty, dark chapel. The only lights are the reflections of the painted glass from sunrise, shades of red, blue, green, and purple. It’s beautiful, yes, but the obnoxious red beams inch closer and closer towards me as the sun continues to rise. Anger, frustration, raw.
“Lord, I have sinned, you know that. I have sinned on numerous occasions, but this...this is a sin I cannot commit. This is envy and wrath, the deadliest of the seven. I can’t face him, I just can’t.” I say.
I hear a noise towards the entrance of the church and turn around. It’s Bishop Will, startled at my presence.
“How the hell did you get in here?” says Bishop Will.
“Father John told me about the key in the back.” I reply.
Bishop Will slowly walks closer to me. He’s draped in the typical black priest attire with his large-framed glasses and crooked smile becoming more apparent to me. Bishop Will, compared to the other priests and deacons who work here, is the most cynical and wise. I label him as the most cynical, but he claims he’s just a realist which, to some extent, is pretty true. Bishop Will believes in atheists and gays having a place in heaven, abortion as an act of free will, and equality among the sexes. He’s different, but I like it. He’s more balanced and less nuance, which is something the Catholic church needs more nowadays.
“Really?” he replies.
“Yeah, just in case I needed a special morning prayer.” I say.
Bishop Will throws his keys on the altar and proceeds to sit with me. Just when I thought the altar was something sacred, he throws dirty car keys onto it like a regular coffee table.
“And what’s so special about today?”
“It’s about wrestling.”
He sighs.
“Seriously?” he says.
“Wasn’t it you that told me to pursue a return back?” I ask.
“I would never say that. Must’ve been Father John.”
Now that I think about it, Father John was the one who handed me the slip last month. My golden ticket back to the squared circle.
“Yeah, nevermind.” I say.
Bishop Will takes out the hymn book from the pew and scrolls through the pages. He keeps flipping, searching for something.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for a hymn about pain, something you may be a fan of.”
The only hymns I can think of are “Be Patient” and “Some Day”. They’re songs of pain, grief, and suffering, the first hymns I read when I came here. They were the only ones that soothed me and ironically, it was Bishop Will that showed me them. He finally flips to a page and lands his pointer finger on it.
“Read this one. It’s called ‘Sail On’.” says Bishop Will.
I glance over the lyrics from left to right. “Upon a wide and stormy sea, Thou’rt sailing to eternity, And thy great admiral orders thee: Sail on! Sail on! Sail on!” I continue reading, flipping the pages over and over. “Art far from shore, and weary worn, The sky o’ercast, thy canvas torn? Hark ye! a voice to thee is borne: Sail on! Sail on! Sail on!” I read it over a second time and then a third and a fourth. I’m the admiral, commanding myself to sail on despite the obstacles and harsh weather.
“I, I didn’t even tell you what was wrong.” I say.
“You don’t need to.” he says.
Bishop Will gets up and turns on the lights and fans. I’ve been here for a half hour and barely realized how much I was sweating until I read the hymn.
“This hymn, would you say I’m the admiral?”
“Of course. You’re also the overcast sky and the stormy sea.”
He begins pouring the church wine into the chalice and walking back over to me with it. He starts drinking it, almost in a sacreligious way that makes me uncomfortable.
“Why this hymn? Why does-”
“I’ve done a bunch of communions and confirmations with this hymn at the forefront. For those sticking with the parish, they’ve heard it plenty like a pop song. But to me, this hymn encapsulates what it means to be the dimwitted fighter you are.”
Oh, and did I mention he hates my career? Bishop Will’s the only one I can count on for that, besides my girlfriend at times.
“I’m not dimwitted Father.” I say.
“I know, but every fighter is fighting for something. I know you fight for redemption and atonement, but whoever you’re worried about, they’re fighting for something different. To me, that’s dimwitted and stupidity at its core. To you, that’s nature and the clash of ideals.”
I disagree.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because the man I’m fighting is someone I once called a brother.”
Bishop Will gets up and pours more wine. Jesus, he drank that so fast.
“And?”
“It’s facing my past. It terrifies me.”
He puts the chalice back down and returns to the pew. He sits, plopping to the seat.
“You face your past every single day Ante.” says Bishop Will.
“I know that.” I reply.
“If you do, then why are you here?”
“Because it’s a part of my past I wish I could forget.”
“Wishing we could forget is absurd. Wishing we could remember and grow from our experiences is what shapes us. It’s the glue that prevents us from breaking and crumbling.”
I look down at my knees as I get up from the bench. Bishop Will smiles.
“I used to stand where you kneel.”
Bishop Will grabs my hand. I feel the residue from the wine drip into my palm.
“I thought the church was fake and folly because of who I loved and how God condemned it. My parents brought me to mass every Sunday to ‘cure’ me and rid me of my sin. I wore a cross on my necklace every day for years, only to realize that the turmoil experienced in the past is what truly shaped me.”
He gets up and goes for the wine again. He slugs it down fast.
“I mean, isn’t the Catholic church inherently homosexual? All we do is pray to men and occasionally sing songs to Jesus’s mom.” laughs Bishop Will.
He’s right. Isn’t the WFWF inherently homosexual too?
“Yeah, haha.” I laugh.
He walks back over, instead standing over the pew with the chalice in his hand.
“But, you do understand me, right? You must ‘sail on’ and forgive the past for what it’s done to you. Whatever past is coming back to haunt you is something you should take with a grain of salt, something you shouldn’t tread lightly past.”
“What if it’s a giant, menacing, dragon beast?” I ask.
Bishop Will nearly spits out his wine.
“Then redeem him you will, haha. Peace be with you Ante, I got to set up for morning mass and if you’re here, then you’re revealing the magic behind God’s word.”
I emerge from the pew, refreshed and ready to take on the day.
“Peace be with you Father. Thank you.”
Bishop Will nods and waves me away, walking slowly towards the back room. I trot out of the church down the main aisle. My steps clack as I pass the blue and green lights from the glass panes.
I push open the large wooden doors into the piercing sunlight. I gaze at the parking lot and see a figure, leaning on their car. It’s a very nice car, expensive from the looks of it. As I move closer, I begin to recognize the figure leaning.
“Forgive me Father! I have sinned, haha!” says Elijah, jokingly waving his arms in the air.
Once you tread on the path of redemption, the past hits you at all corners, guns blazing.
I'm always where the sun don't shine. The tears don't show, because my heart's been broke. I hate myself, but it won't show and I constantly lose all my remorse. But, it's ten for the wolf, three for the shepherd, and it’s one for the sheep who, led by your leopard, gave his perception as a handle of weapon. Take a bite of your apple, Tugarin. Give me all you can offer now as I'm trapped in a changing maze, setting my soul ablaze.
My soul’s in inferno, raging with the fiery redemption I crave. I crave it for you, almighty Tugarin. You, my precious apple, stare at my fruit with the greedy eyes of self-worth and pride. Almighty dragon, you are my past, my dear friend that I must save for the sake of atonement and righteousness in the eyes of the Lord.
Heartless is recklessness and it's war with the pacifist to the word of a masochist. You’re off of the map, Tugarin. You spoke to me, fangs shown, telling me to take what I crave and what you crave is already yours. But it’s not yours, friend. It never was.
What you crave is solace, silent and sweet. You seek an end to your means, an end to the road we set ourselves upon. But my Lord, I spoke to a baphomet for his redemption and all he did was smile, taken aback. I stared at him for countless days and nights until I realized I was staring at the enemy. The enemy is my friend. It’s you, mighty Zmey.
You’re the baphomet, something so unearthly and hellfire that brimstone can’t cure the flame. Speak to me and let the words heal your soul. Tug on it, set yourself free with a path that isn’t as laden with kerosine and smoke. Take a path of redemption, pouring water on your singed wounds with the sweet sound of setting your soul ablaze instead. If your soul is ablaze, then the body heals and builds itself to something better. It shapes you, much like the past and forgiveness of our sins committed in unison.
We are one, Tugarin. Follow the Lord’s prayers and my footsteps to unlock your true self. The “beast” is dead, the man lives! At “Second to None”, Tugarin Zmey will be known as the righteous, almighty man, redeemed of his past sins and redeemed of his devilish livelihood. You will emerge a different man, old friend. You will emerge with me, amongst the ash and smoke as a partner, as a friend renewed. Do this and you shall be spared Tugarin. Saved, reborn, touched.
When you’re down, I will help you get up, whenever and wherever.
"Jesus replied: No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for service in the kingdom of God.” -Luke 9:62