Ego Death

"I am the only idol - The Iron Idol, and there is nothing False about it."

The words echoed in Erin's head - a cruel, mocking chorus droning on and on incessantly as she squinted into the blinding spotlight trained on her. As her eyes struggled to adjust to the harsh light a million thoughts raced through her head: she was pale, she couldn't even remember the last time she'd seen the sun. She was lightheaded, struggling to balance on wobbling knees as continued to peer into the stream of light like a deer in the headlights. Something was wrong - everything was wrong.

Though her feet were planted as firmly as they could on the hollow wooden stage beneath her, she felt a sense of weightlessness, as if she was floating. Or falling. As she clenched her eyes shut, hoping for a reprieve from the searing intensity of the light that seemed to follow every imagined attempt at breaking free, she could almost picture it. Falling, falling, falling. Arms flailing, desperate to grab ahold of something, anything at all that could stop it. But that's not what'd happen, she reasoned to herself. She'd grab onto something - someone - and drag them down with her. The thought brought a smile to her lips, and she opened her eyes once more.

What was it Nietzsche said? "If thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee"? She sure hoped so.

The microphone rested on its stand by the edge of the stage. She struggled to keep herself balanced as she crossed the stage to the stand, muttering her usual pre-game existential affirmations under her breath. By the time she made it across the stage, the spotlight had faded and the house lights had come back to life, revealing an audience of absolutely nobody. Oddly-shaped chairs were perfectly pushed into immaculate black tables, though aside from her, there was no soul in sight.

Still, as she cleared her throat and spoke into the microphone - a softly-spoken "Hello?" - a wav3 of applause washed over the room, as if on cue.

"Is anyone out there?"

The shuffling of footsteps in the back of the room brought her attention up from the front row. Behind the rows and rows of identical tables, a small child ran, going as fast her little legs would allow. At the sight of the woman on stage, the child screamed and backpedaled, tripping over her feet and falling to the floor.

I'd grab onto something - someone - and drag them down with me.

In the blink of an eye, the child was gone. Vanished. Disappeared without a trace. There was nothing again - no one. Erin scanned the audience for the faintest flicker of life. Nothing. Just rows and rows of empty chairs and empty tables as far as the eye could see. She felt her heartbeat racing - pounding into her throat. Her hands shook as she adjusted microphone and leaned into the black outer jacket and she muttered those same affirmations, though they felt more hollow than usual.

"Anyone?"

All she was met with was the same empty studio applause from nowhere.

"Anyone at all?"

Meanwhile, in the audience, far removed from Erin's mind's eye, a brown-haired child tugged on her mother's shirt.

"Mommy, is she okay?"

The mother simply smiled and laughed, patting the little girl on the head.

"Yeah, she's fine. This is her thing. She loves repeating herself."


The next thing I know, I'm long gone. The sea of empty chairs at empty tables is long-gone and instead, I'm seated across from a thin man in an ill-fitting suit in a cafe or… something. Yeah, something. My fingers drum along the edge of the table as I eye the man with a sly grin on my face. He looks back at me, mirroring my expression and mannerisms to the letter - a smug sense of victory in his eyes. My smile turns to a frown and his to a hollow look of faux-concern.

"What is this?"

He smiles and continues drumming his fingers along the edge of the table, looking me in the eye without saying a single word.

"Hello? I'm talking to you."

"I know."

"Then why don't you tell me what's going on?"

He pauses for a moment, a quizzical look on his face before he descends back into all smiles.

"You don't know? Figured you would since this whole thing is your idea."

I bang my fist on the table and stand up, pushing my chair away.

"I don't have time for this bullshit, okay?"

I jam my finger into his chest, and instead of looking afraid or even slightly intimidating, he just chuckles and grabs my hand, pushing it away from him.

"You're making a scene. You look ridiculous."

"Who the fuck are you?"

"You might want to keep your voice down. After all, you sound like a bit of a nutcase right now and that's hardly becoming of a powerful religious figure such as yourself. Now, don't worry - I see through facades and appearances and such. I mean, isn't insanity kind of a prerequisite for a position such as yours? The woman so deluded, she thinks she speaks to and for God himself, sitting here, wasting her time talking to someone who isn't even there.

"Now tell me, don't you think you're making a scene?"



Andre Holmes is a weak-willed, spineless little imp.



What do you mean I targeted him? If anything, the little bastard targeted me with his usual barrage of half-witted social media harassment and self-aggrandizing bullshit. He puffed his chest out so far and made so many promises he couldn't keep that when it came time to get the job done against me, he just couldn't do it. But you know what kind of person Andre really is, underneath all his machismo and claims to the contrary - he's a fucking coward. Fitting that the audience cheers for him despite his own admission that he isn't a hero - as if that is somehow supposed to absolve him of any little bit of wrongdoing. We're talking about a man who threatened to end my career all because I committed the grievous sin of daring to say mean things about him on the internet. His skin is so fucking thin and his ego is so fucking fragile that all it took to knock him down a peg, to send his whole career spiraling out of control was one well-placed chair shot.

Then what does he do? He follows me around like a lost little puppy, always making sure to remind me that I'm his arch nemesis or something, tugging on Mommy Fausse's skirt every time he breathes within a certain number of feet from me. Constantly wanting to prove that he'll hurt me bad, maybe he'll end my career this time. Have I made it a game to pick on the little shit? Sure, of course. But don't get it twisted around and act like I started this whole thing. That distinction falls squarely on Andre's shoulders.

But hey, let's keep acting like I'm the villain of this story, right Andre? That's what this is really all about, isn't it? You feel your life crumbling all around you because you made the conscious decision to come back to wrestling when you said you were done. Over. That it was behind you and yet, a new set of doors open and you throw yourself right through them because you have nothing else other than this. And you're aware that everything you have is slipping right through your fingertips and there's no one to blame but yourself. You're missing your children grow up to chase the flickering hope of glory. You're letting another relationship sour because your hunt for gold and validation is more important. You're struggling, failing to reach the heights you want, facing setback after setback after setback. And you want - no, you need - someone to blame it on. A scapegoat you can pin all your troubles onto and make into the villain of the story because you're too scared to admit one simple truth:

You're the villain. You've always been the villain.

Sure, you can wrap that revelation up in a pretty bow and hide behind some facade of being above good and evil - that the only thing on your mind is success and any cost - but the truth is much more sinister than that. You're the cause of all your problems. You. Not anybody else. I mean, I can come and get you riled up like it's nobody's business because you have the temper of a fucking wife-beater with roid rage - is that why your wife left you?

You're the one sinking your own credibility week after week while you parade around social media, throwing gifs around everywhere as if keeping up a garbage shtick that wasn't funny the first time around is somehow a good idea.

But you've deluded yourself so much that somehow you've got it all figured out - I'm the bad guy. The cause of all your problems. Why you can't beat guys like Howard Black and Thursday Kerrigan and everyone else you've lost to since I embedded a chair in your skull. Ever since I came back around and fucked with your knee a little more. Ever since I found a nice, quiet little place in your head and moved in. After all, it was rent-free. And now, I've got you wrapped so tightly around my finger that I have the little voice in the back of your head telling you I'm the cause of all your problems and that if you just beat me down hard enough, you'll be vindicated. That everything will be fine again if you just beat me.

Truth is, it's not that easy. I'm in your head now - we've developed a bond, haven't we? Sure, it's nothing romantic or even platonic, but think about it. You've put so much effort into hating me and it's so embarrassingly unilateral. All it takes are a few simple actions and I'm nestled so deep in your head that removing me is a like a surgeon pulling a bullet out of some poor schmuck's spine: it comes with the risk of paralysis. After all, what would you do if you didn't have me to blame, Andre? Would you finally take responsibility for all the damage you've caused to the people you love?

No.

You'd try and find another. And another. Another scapegoat. Another villain. Another strawman to line up and pin everything bad in your life on. Because that's how your mind works - you don't have the self-awareness to realize when you're the problem.

And you've always been the problem.

Don't you get it, Andre? I already won. I broke you. Sure, I can't take all the credit for myself - Katherine Phoenix did a lot of the heavy lifting. She fried your brain until you were barely able to cling to the frayed ends of sanity you had left. Then I came along and with one split-second decision, I turned you into everything you hate. Katherine Phoenix thought you were in love with her, so she stalked you. You turned around and bullied her, ruthlessly tore her to shreds every chance you got and you drove a mentally ill woman to attempt suicide.

Now, you're the stalker. You're the one so fixated on me you can't help but try and remind me who you are every time we're in the same building. We've come full circle, Andre. Now you're Katherine Phoenix. Now you're the one with the illness, with the problem, and you know what it's time for, right? It's time for the tables to turn. For you to face everything you've done to others - to feel their pain. You can do that right? We'll see.

Maybe I can beat this awful obsession out of you. Maybe I can make you see the light because even now - you freak, you amalgamation of everything you could ever hope to loathe - God does forgive. That's what I've been trying to preach to you this whole time. This whole one-sided hatelove affair of ours has just been an excuse for me to teach a fucking self-destructive cunt one simple lesson.

It's never too late.

But you have to realize that at the end of the day, you're everything wrong with you, Andre.

So, time to man up.

Get your eyes off my ass. Stop tugging on my skirt. Stop blaming me for every fucking minor inconvenience in your life.

This is it Katherine.

Remember what I said last time? That you needed to be reborn through humiliation and crushing defeat? Maybe this time you should internalize the message.

Ready for the end?

Because here it comes.



Then I feel it. A wall. Something solid - something tangible. I turn my body and push both hands into the wall. Behind the wall I see light - a dim, flickering light but a light nonetheless. And on the direct opposite side of the wall I see a frowning face with drooping, red eyes and unkempt facial hair. I furrow my brows and look inspect him more carefully. His face is familiar, like a memory from a past life.

"You look like shit," I can't help but blurt out, smiling wide as I could. This was my something. If I was going down - he was going down with me.

He eyes me with an expression that's half fear and half curiosity.

"Oh, come on. This can't even be the weirdest thing you've seen all week."


"So all I am to you is an it? That's fucking rude."


"I can hear you and you can hear me. This wall isn't that thin."


"I don't know - maybe I'm your better half or something. The one that isn't so fucking scared of a girl on the other side of a glass wall separating reality from an infinite pitch black nothingness that no person or object can escape from once they're trapped.

"I mean, if you're real, you're losing it too, man. Talking to the girl on the other side of infinity or whatever the hell this is, so don't try and turn it around like I'm the only nutjob here because I am a perfectly well-adjusted adult thank you very much.

"Now can you please just let me in?"

I press against the glass, harder. He reaches for the mirror as well, and as his fingers touch the glass, it cracks in a spiderweb pattern underneath my fingertips. The smile on my face physically hurts as I readily shove my fingers further into the broken glass, blood pooling on the tips of my fingers. The feeling of the shards embedding themselves in my fingers is rapturous - something of a stinging relief. Something real, something tangible.

"See?" I ask, barely able to contain my glee. "See how much better things are when you help someone?"


I'm back on stage again - why am I back on stage again?

I peer out into the crowd, expecting to find the same vacant nothingness that met me last time, but instead I find the seats filled with men and women, all clad in masquerade masks. As far as the eye can see. Hundreds of them, dressed to the nines, packed into whatever this place is, eyeing my every move with intense scrutiny.

"Hell, darling."

I turn to the voice from the front row - the thin man in the suit. The only one without a mask.

"You're in Hell."

The audience laughs - a twisted cackle. A hundred voices become one.

"Didn't you see the light? What'd ya think that was?"

The thin man stands up and gestures towards the mask-wearing audience.

"You live here now. This is your home. And these are your people, false prophet."

My hands shake and I feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead, which I try desperately to wipe away. The thin man keeps his eyes on me, a wide smile on his face.

"What's the matter? Think you're too good for that. Don't think your daddy would agree with you there. How many-"

"Shut up."

"Oh, now she's talking. Couldn't get ya to shut up earlier. 'Hello? Is anybody there?' Give me a fuckin' break."

The audience laughs again, though the fall silent as a familiar sound fills the room - shuffling footsteps. The masked men and women stand up and part like the Red Sea as the little girl runs down the rows and rows and tables - her facial features becoming more and more prominent which each row: brown hair, brown eyes, completely fucking terrified-

Oh no.

No. This isn't happening. I backpedal away from the advancing child, hands shaking, whole body trembling, muttering to myself. I'm dreaming. This isn't real.

"Have you seen my-"

"No."

"Have you seen my mo-"


"Shut up!"

My hand clenches tightly around an empty cup, shattering it into pieces. In an instant I can feel every eye in this cafe trained on me, and mine are fixed on the thin man in the suit, laughing hysterically and clapping like a trained seal.

"Welcome back to reality! Or, at least, whatever passes for it nowadays."

Blood drips from my hand and onto the table as I glare at the man, my eyes drilling a hole through his.

"Uh-uh-uh, there you go looking all crazy again. Need I remind you that you just screamed shut up at absolutely no one, crushed a glass cup in your hand, and are now staring intently at an empty chair. Really unbecoming behavior. You're lucky this is all in your head."

"What?"

"Look around, sweetheart. Can't you see it?"

I look up, away from our table and scan the rest of the cafe, finding every eye already on me. That's when I see it: they're all Andre Holmes. A legion of them all seated, gawking, wide fucking smiles on their faces as they see me absolutely implode. Fucking piece of shit.

"Now, come on Erin. Be real with yourself."

The thin man grabs me by the throat and throws me to the floor. As I lay on the ground, looking up at the towering figure looming over me, he whispers, just loud enough for me to hear:

"How do you think you'll beat Andre if you can't even beat yourself?"




The thin man in a suit had been something of a plague to Erin in the days following Mayor Sanchez' announcement regarding the state of religion in the city of Chicago. An assistant by job title, he was little more than an obnoxious hanger-on, seemingly always around - no matter what. He sat on the wobbling office chair on the opposite end of the tiny, rathole hotel room that was Erin's base of operations - where Tommy McIlroy once sat. He cleared his throat, drawing her attention back to him and away from the empty chamber of her revolver.

"Hm?"


"There is no title."

The thin man snorted.


"That's why there are no titles. We are all children of--"


Erin sneered.

"Your point being?"

The thin man hopped out of the chair and made his way over towards her, sinister grin on his face.


The thin man laughed and shook his head.


"I do mind."


Erin squinted at the thin man. "What are--"


The thin man pried the empty gun from Erin's hand and tossed it across the bed, before grabbing her chin and forcing her to look him in the eye.