VI: The House of the Rising Sun Pt. 2
Aug 28, 2016 15:04:27 GMT -6
Spencer Adams, Bonnie Blue, and 1 more like this
Post by Deleted on Aug 28, 2016 15:04:27 GMT -6
After Howard opened the birthday present from Kaz with Joey, he retired to his room upstairs, flopping down hard on the bed to stare up in silence at the cracking plaster ceiling above him. It was late – his hang over had worn off, but the exhaustion of driving those three hours in such a haze before spending the afternoon and evening playing with his child had sapped the remainder of strength from his bones. When the door opened and Sarah entered the room, he hardly had the ability to acknowledge her – just continue to stare up at the ceiling in silence.
She sat on the side of the bed, her hand coming over to rest delicately on his shoulder. Those big, beautiful blue eyes of hers stared at the lines and angles of his face, slowly tracing every scar and crack on the skin she knew so well. Her hand came up to his chin, stroking the unshaven stubble along his chin which seemed to have gone neglected since they last saw one another – Howard was typically a strict one for shaving. He didn’t respond to her touch, his eyes still locked on those cracks in the plaster as she affectionately scratched under his chin. With a soft sigh, she laid down on the bed beside him, turning to press herself against his side and drape a hand over his chest.
The couple laid together in the quiet of the humid Nebraska evening. A storm had begun – the rain pelted their window viciously as a crack of lightning and roll of thunder split the serenity. Sarah nuzzled her face into his neck, the corners of her lips falling down in synchronicity with his. Her hands clutched to his white cotton undershirt tightly, hoping he’d never leave. After a moment of laying in that drone of the weather, Howard’s arm slid down and snaked around her shoulders. A tear slid from her cheek unnoticed as he spoke in a soft, gentle voice.
Howard Black: I wish I could stay.
A second tear slid down her cheek, her arm unwilling to leave him to brush it from her face. In response, she simply clung to him tighter. Her own voice was quiet, wavering behind the choked back sobs.
Sarah Black: You don’t have to.
There was silence. Howard was thinking. When he spoke, his voice was pained and apologetic.
Howard Black: You know I have to.
She nodded against him, struggling to hold back more tears.
Sarah Black: I know.
The silence blanketed the room once more. Lightning struck again, somewhere outside of town.
Howard Black: It was a good day, wasn’t it?
He’d called Sarah just before leaving Kansas City, and she’d made the preparations for his return. Despite the tense and contentious parting of their last meeting, she’d never turn him away. She loved him; Joey loved him. Even if she hated it, she understood. Life threw curveballs so we could adapt – God made us suffer so we could learn to preserve. Her hand came up from his waist to trace a finger along the thin silver chain around his neck.
Sarah Black: It was.
They’d had pot roast – Howard’s family recipe and Joey’s favorite food – and braised vegetables for dinner. Howard hadn’t drank, even though there was beer in the fridge. She was glad he’d opted out; some part of him was still in control. But she worried – she worried a lot.
Sarah Black: I’m going to have Joey write Kaz a thank-you note. I don’t suppose you’ve talked to Kaz recently, have you?
Howard sighed, his other arm now crossing his chest to clasp his hands together around her. He closed his eyes, the name of Kaz hanging heavy on his mind.
Howard Black: I haven’t.
Sarah Black: He might understand if you try. You remember everything that happened with Sophia, right? Everything he told you about? Maybe if you explain the situation you were in and still are, he’ll be on your side.
Howard was quiet once more – how could he even hope to face Kaz? Something had occurred to him in the months since his initiation of the conflict with Cory and his treatment by everyone in the following months: none of the forgiveness he’d extended would be reciprocated. How could he hope Kaz would understand? How could he have the audacity to remind Kaz of his own past, as though holding something above his head?
Sarah Black: You always saw the good in him; why wouldn’t he do the same for you?
Howard sighed before interjecting himself abruptly.
Howard Black: Kaz isn’t going to let things slide that easily.
Sarah frowned deeper, her eyes shooting up the face of her husband with a look of confusion.
Sarah Black: Why would you say that?
Howard Black: Because no one’s let it go. I looked Cory in the eyes. I told him I loved him – and I meant it. I said I was sorry, even if that meant nothing. But I meant it – I fucking meant it. And where was that? Where did that go?
The tension in the room was thick – it could have been cut with a knife. Howard shook his head again.
Howard Black: Why do I think Kaz would be any different? Why do I think he’d offer me that sort of forgiveness?
Sarah Black: You saw in him something almost no one else did. You went out on a limb for him, Howie. You stood beside him at a time no one else would – and you didn’t even do it for gain. You did it because you saw a good man deep inside him. You don’t think he could return that?
Howard Black: If Cory couldn’t then –
Sarah Black: Howard!
Sarah’s voice came loud and sudden, causing Howie to flinch back on reflex. She rolled onto his chest, staring him in the eyes as she spoke.
Sarah Black: Cory. Is not. Kaz! Goddamnit, Howie, can you think for a moment?!
The room was quiet once more. Howard’s gaze stayed looked on those big beautiful blue eyes, now filled to the brim with misty tears. His arms stayed locked around her, pulling her head to his chest as the levee finally broke and she began to weep.
Inside, Howard felt only emptiness. Even in the wake of his wife’s agony, nothing could seem to stir an emotion or feeling from the emptiness the belt had created. It was a deep, black chasm which sucked him in deeper a little more every day as it seemed to consume more and more. When was the last time Howard had felt? When had something truly affected him and brought him back to the surface? Even a day as good as today – in the face of the obstacles before him – had only been gray. Gray was better than black, but gray was still gray.
After a moment of hesitation, Howard spoke.
Howard Black: …I, um… I’ll try next week.
Sarah released him, turning over to her other side. He rolled instinctively, his arms wrapping around her waist in a tight embrace as he pressed his lips to the shoulder beneath her thin gray sleep shirt. He could feel her body heave beneath his arms. Her voice was shaky.
Sarah Black: You don’t have to leave.
Howard was quiet, his eyes moving beyond her to the white walls before him. His voice was quiet.
Howard Black: You know I have to. For you. For Joey.
She sobbed, choking back the tears before gently nodding her head.
Sarah Black: I know.
The two lay in silence for the remainder of the night; Howard hardly noticed when Sarah went to sleep, save the stifling of her sobs. After several sleepless hours, when the clock hit three AM, Howard found peace.
Riiiiiiiiing
Hello, Alex; it’s Howard. You must be wondering why you’re getting a call from me, a few days from Meltdown. No mind games; I promise. I’m not calling you to mock you or ridicule you or try to deflate you. I just want to talk when the cameras aren’t on us; it seems like the only time I can drop this act and be straight-forward. I think you deserve that sort of courtesy; you’re probably wondering why I’ve gone at you the ways I have and why I’ve been treating you like this. I have answers – they probably aren’t satisfying to you, but I have them.
Where do I start?
I don’t hate you, Alex. I don’t even dislike you – I think you absolutely deserve this shot. You’re one of the brightest stars in the UCI. The way you’ve risen since the collapse of the WCF is testament to the star you were, shackled by a laughable set of tertiary titles. No, I think we can all agree you have been long overdue for a shot at the title. And here we are, aren’t we? You and I – about to square off in the ring, the champion and challenger. But for all that I could say about you right now – any praise or admiration – I need to be straight up with you. You aren’t going to win this match. This is not your time. Your path towards the top of the mountain is coming to a dead end. I only wish I could tell you how sorry I am that I have to do this to you.
Can I ask you a personal question? I’m sorry if that’s intrusive – I’ve always just been curious. Why do you drink?
I feel like you’ll have some answer about how the party never ends. Maybe you’ll talk about how you like to bring a good time and extend it to others. Hell, I’m sure you’re already eying UCI as the new Sloshed Pit – a traveling bar where there’s never a last call and no one has a frown. I like that idea; it’s sort of a fun fantasy to escape into, don’t you think? But you’ll have to forgive me for projecting; I can’t help but feel there’s something sadder to it all. How’s the man behind the curtain? Is he okay? Is there something else?
I know you’ve had trauma as you grew up; #BeachKrew saw it fit to smear it across every cesspool on the internet and bring it up as often as possible. I’m not going to taunt your trauma, Alex; I admire your strength. We’ve both gone through awful hardships in our lives, and I’ve always used that to make me stronger. I can see that’s not a foreign concept to you; that pain is such a good fuel, isn’t it?
But what about when that pain becomes too much?
I, uh… I drink a bit, too. I drink for lots of reasons. I drink because I honestly hate being on the road, away from home. I drink because it was a lie when they said I wouldn’t feel a thing doing this week in and week out. I drink because I’ve let down those who love me – who care for me. Did you know my wife doesn’t allow my son to watch me on TV anymore? Don’t worry about our marriage – it was a mutual decision. But it still makes me drink. It makes me drink that I haven’t worked up the courage to call Kaz in several months and try to talk to him. I drink because Cory McCready hates me and nothing can fix that. I drink because I don’t want this fucking belt – I wanted it until I realized just how heavy it is. And I drink because I’m going to have to do to you what I did to Cory: I’m going to have to destroy you.
Do you realize I don’t have a choice? It’s my job: I have a gun to my head. I can’t be saved; it’s too late for me.
Imagine, Alex, that you wake up every morning just wanting to make a positive difference in the world. Imagine that all you want is a wife and a son and a quiet home life where you can all grow together. Then imagine that isn’t in the cards; fate hasn’t panned out that way for you. Life isn’t going to let you out like that alive. You have one skill, and everything seems conspired together to make you use that skill.
My skill? To hurt people.
And I’m really fucking good at it, Alex. Did you see what I did to Scarecrow? That wasn’t even intentional – I just cranked that Kimura Lock as hard as I could until he passed out. Hell, I didn’t even hear the tendons snapping, or I’d have let it go! I just did it.
I just do things.
I’m a killer, Alex. I’m starting to realize that. What was that quote? “The blood’s on the wall, so you might as well just admit it”? I’m seeing that blood on the wall, man. And maybe it’s time I turned around and admitted it: I’m really fucking good at hurting people.
I’ve been hurting people since the moment I stepped into a wrestling ring. You can say I’m boring, but I’m the most accomplished technical wrestler in any fed in North America. Tell me, Alex, what do you bring to the table that I can’t? You’re not faster than me – you’re only marginally stronger than me – you’re not a better wrestler than me – you won’t go to the lengths I will. This isn’t bragging – this isn’t even humble bragging. It’s a confession, goddamnit. I can’t stop; I’m losing control. Can’t you fucking see it, man? I’m at Rock Bottom. And all I can do is act on instinct – that instinct is to hurt people.
My journey isn’t going to end here. That’s what I mean when I say I’m sorry that I have to put you down this way. Maybe you think there’s some catch to this whole thing; that these words have to be saccharine and insincere or something. No, they aren’t. I… I promise, man. I mean everything I said about you earlier. You’re great. You’re worthy. Don’t listen to the interviews; listen to me here.
But know what else, Alex? You’re not going to win. You can’t win. Somethings are matters of destiny. Some things are simply written in the sand. One of those things is your defeat at my hands.
The wheel of fate is already spinning; whoever takes this match goes on to face David Sanchez. So who is it? Who has the most at stake: his enemy or the man he’s been called shadow of? I don’t know if you have that killer instinct needed to defeat Sanchez, Alex. And David must be stopped. You think I’m a bad guy? You’re not looking at the bigger picture, man.
I’m sorry that this is your shot; it’s almost unfair for you to be stuck in this position. See, I relate to you, Alex. I see all the blood and sweat you’ve dumped into the ring. Every time you step into the ring, I see a fighter who is going to put it all on the line for a shot at glory. You may not see it, but that’s me too. This company? This career? This belt? This legacy? That’s all I have now. I traded everything – all the happiness in my life – to keep others safe and secure. My reward? This gold plate on a leather strap. I wish I could be you, slaving away for the belt on no circumstance but the sheer desire for prestige and immortality it offers. I remember when I was like that, Alex – that was back before Joey Flash snapped my arm. I miss that Howard; he wasn’t perfect, but he was just himself.
I’m not me anymore, man. I’m an idea. I’m a figure. I’m the villain in this story. And you, Alex? You’re going to be the man cut down in his wake to boost the next man up to bat. After the Archduke of Mass Confusion falls in the ring, the UCI will titter amongst itself as to whom can topple Howard Black. David Sanchez will rise next – sure. He’ll fall just as well. I’ll leave a pile of bodies in my wake; as I said, it’s what I do best. I’m just sorry you have to be one of the members of that pile. I’m so fucking sorry.
But this title, Alex? It’s my ball and chain to bear. This is my cross; my albatross. Kinda funny how those words rhyme, isn’t it – on being a burden of faith and suffering, the other being a burden of contempt. I guess that’s what it comes down to in the end – I hold this belt because I’m the only one who can shoulder that burden. You, Alex? You’re not ready. It’s still yet to be your time.
And when I beat you, Alex? I’m going to have a drink. I’m not going to get “sloshed”; that implies fun. I’m not going to have a good time savoring that pull of Wild Turkey 101 out of the bottle – I’m going to regret it. I’m going to know I’ve stepped on another budding career because I had no choice. I’m going to know that I had nothing left to do but be the villain in this story. I’m going to ruin your hopes, your dreams, your pride. Because I have to. Because that’s what my job as champion requires me to do.
I want you to hate me, Alex. I want you to get in that ring and think about the broken arm of Cory McCready. I want you to think about all the lives that have been ruined in my climb to the top and all the people who’ve suffered under my reign. I want you to think of the cheers of Cory and Shadowlove and the other Guardians. Please. Give me your everything or you won’t even come close to summiting me. Goddamnit, Alex, give me a run for my money. Prove the nay-sayers wrong and show us all something exceptional – show us you belong in this match in spite of all popular perception. That’s the only way you stand a chance. If you come at me with anything less than your best, I’m going to tear through you like a wildfire through grass. I’ll leave you reduced to ash – battered and bruised, a former shell of the man he was. If you at least give your best – if you at least hold your own – you can walk out of this match with your head raised high. That’s all I want from you; the heart of a warrior.
But you need to accept right now that you aren’t going to win this match.
That’s all it can ever come down to, Alex. And when the smoke settles and the dust clears, I wish I could raise your hand before those people. I wish you could get the applause you so deeply deserve for bringing the champion to his limit and back. But I don’t think you’d accept the gesture. You don’t get it – you don’t get me. That’s why I’m giving you this phone call, even though I can imagine you’ll almost immediately delete it. I want to wish you luck and know that at the end of the day it truly is nothing personal; I just have to do my job.
My job is the villain. My job is to ruin your August and send you back into training.
You won’t like it. You’ve been training and pining for so long, you can hardly stand being passed over yet another time. But it happens to all of us; we get a dose of reality. It makes us stronger. It’s what brings us to the top.
One day, you’ll be ready. But today is not that day. Not all dreams come true. Sometimes life doesn’t have a happen ending. Eventually, the bars have to close.
I’m sorry, Alex. I’m so fucking sorry.
It was a long drive for someone with everything to think about. On the first leg of the trip, Howard had listened to an audio book and a few radio shows before attempting to switch over to his iPod – nothing seemed to hold his interest for very long. The miles wound on, Nebraska soon passing in favor of Colorado passing in favor of New Mexico. On the first night, after a strenuous twelve hour drive, he spent the night in Santa Fe. The next morning, it was a seven hour drive all the way into Phoenix – he had to be sure to get to his hotel at a decent time so he’d have time to settle down and focus on the match that Sunday.
But focus didn’t come easy on this drive for Howard – everything seemed to finally be weighing on him. He thought of the sobs of Sarah; the sadness in the eyes of his son as he’d left that morning; the look of agony on Cory’s face as he slipped into unconsciousness; the look of surprise and disappointment on the face of Dune as the belt struck him upside the chin; the anger in Kaz’s voice as he spilled venom into Howard’s voicemail; the callous disgust of Alex Richards; the quiet anger and sadness of David as he ended their partnership; the mockery of Shadowlove; the sneer of Jayson Price. With each passing car, an odd impulse itched at the back of his spine, creeping up and down his arms to his wrists until coaxing itself into his palms and fingers.
What if I swerved into that lane?
His lip trembled – the implications of the thought struck him immediately like a hammer to the chest. He shook his head, reaching up to rub one hand (so as not to lose sight of the road) before returning it to the steering wheel. Still, his body shook with an odd and sinister surge of adrenaline.
Where was he going? To Phoenix? To Chicago? Back to the slavery of the company and title he so loathed? Why hadn’t he stayed home? For everything he’d seen the Jackal do, he’d been able to keep himself and others safe and above water – even when the creature seemed one step ahead, he never felt unable to wriggle himself from a pickle or, at the very least, survive. So what compelled him back onto the road? When had he become so weak as to fall to pieces and do the bidding of this demon? What prevented him from altering fate?
What prevents me from fucking up his whole plan by swerving into this lane?
The thought gripped Howard around the chest, his body now shaking with the same anxiety which had taken control of his hands and arms. His chest felt heavy, like a belt had been tightened around his ribs and prevented him from taking a deep breath. His mouth tasted like copper – the taste of blood and electricity which accompanied any sort of prior attack of “epilepsy” or intense stress. He reached down for the cup holder for his phone – with his thumb he held down the number two to active speed dial and bring up the only number he knew he’d need in serious emergency.
The phone rang twice. After a click, the line came alive, and the voice of a young woman came through the speaker.
Operator: Crisis Prevention Hotline. How may I help you?
The words sent another spike of liquid electricity through his veins, his vision tunneling as he engaged cruise control on instinct alone. He’d never called the number before – he only programmed it recently as a precaution for the feelings he’d been going through: the feelings of emptiness, of hopelessness, of blank apathy and anguish. Now, hearing the voice and understanding what he’d done, he found himself frozen.
Operator: … Sir, are you there?
The concerned tone of the operator snapped him back to reality. Another exit whipped by on the interstate. Howard’s voice shook as he talk.
Howard Black: Y-y-yeah, I am.
Operator: How are you doing today, sir? May I have a name.
He paused, his mind turning over the words.
Howard Black: Andrew.
Operator: Thank you, Andrew. I’m Megan. How are you today?
Howard paused, the gears of his mind slowly turning. Another car raced past him – he flinched on strange instinct as the thought of steel-on-steel and shattering glass hit him like a rock.
Howard Black: I’m, uh… I’m driving to Phoenix right now.
Megan the Operator: You’re driving?
Howard Black: Yeah.
Megan the Operator: What brings you to Phoenix.
Howard Black: I, uh… I have a job to do.
Megan the Operator: I see. Andrew, what brings you to call?
Howard Black: I, um…
He paused – hesitating for a moment before letting go.
Howard Black: I’m not okay. And I need to talk to someone.
Megan the Operator: Well, I’m glad you decided to give us a call.
Her voice was warm and comforting. For a moment, he relaxed.
Megan the Operator: You know, Andrew, it’s unsafe to talk on the phone while you drive, especially if you’re upset.
Howard Black: I, uh… I know. But I’ve got to be in Phoenix by Five. And I’m also in the middle of the desert; I don’t think there’s a rest stop anywhere.
Megan the Operator: I understand. I do think you’ll be fine if you’re a little late to Phoenix – better late than in an accident.
Howard Black: Yeah, I get it. But, um… I’m sort of on a crunched schedule. Honestly, it’s difficult to explain.
Megan the Operator: Does it have to do with your job?
Howard Black: Yeah, a hotel. I mean, it’s really a motel, actually.
Megan the Operator: I see.
Howard Black: I, uh…
Howard fell silent, his eyes glued on the road as words tumbled in his head like clothes in a dyer. No on-coming cars in sight.
Howard Black: I’m thinking about doing something bad.
Megan the Operator: I see. What sort of thing?
Howard Black: Well, uh…
He paused once more. No, he wasn’t going to get into details.
Howard Black: Something bad.
Megan the Operator: To yourself or someone else?
Howard Black: Myself. I mean, I have to do something bad to someone else, but – um – that’s not what’s on my mind right now.
Megan the Operator: What do you mean?
Howard Black: I, uh… I have to hurt someone. And I don’t want to. So I’m thinking about hurting myself instead so I don’t have to hurt him.
Megan the Operator: Why do you think you have to hurt someone?
Howard Black: I fight for a living. Like, professionally.
Megan the Operator: Like a bouncer or sports?
Howard Black: Sports.
Megan the Operator: Does your job make you unhappy?
Howard Black: Unhappy?
Howard scoffed, reaching for his back of cigarettes. With his thumb, he flipped open the top and drew one out between his index and middle fingers.
Howard Black: I hate my fucking job. I hate everything about it. I hate being on the road. I hate being away from my family. I hate the kind of people who get into this business – self-absorbed knuckle-draggers and misogynists. It’s no wonder everyone in this business is an alcoholic; fuck, I’m drinking on a daily basis due to this shit.
Megan the Operator: Do you have a history of alcohol abuse?
Howard Black: No…
Perhaps it was a lie – the bottle had always been a temptation in his times of trial. But how he was presently? He’d never fallen to such lows. He’d never given so willingly into temptation.
Howard Black: I, uh… this is a recent development.
Megan the Operator: Have you considered quitting your job?
He laughed again, placing the smoke in his mouth as he depressed the cigarette lighter on the dashboard.
Howard Black: This is all I’m good at. Can you imagine that for a second? Imagine you’re a kid growing up who just wanted to be a football player. Or maybe take over the farm – I dunno. Then you get to an age where you realize that’s not going to happen; that’s not what life had in your cards.
He paused as the lighter popped out, indicating it was ready. He gripped the knob gently pulling it from the console and raising it to the end of the smoke to ignite it.
Howard Black: But, that roar of the crowd? That crazy cheer and the feeling you get as you do something for people? Like, that feeling is addicting. It’s like crack – it’s fucking better than coffee or cigarettes. So you go into fighting; you’ve had a rough little life, and you think maybe you’d be okay at it.
Turns out? I’m fucking great at it. I’m one of the best goddamn fighters in the world. So you go into the business because that fucking money is too good to pass up. And at first, you love it. You win accolades and respect, something you’ve never really had before. It feels good to be good at something; you love all that praise you never got but always thought you deserved. And soon enough, you find yourself a champion. And the first time it happens? It’s all you’ve ever wanted. After years of struggling to establish yourself, you’ve put your name on the map. You’re a peak – a pinnacle to be strived for. And that? That’s fucking gold.
He paused to take a drag, his eyes lowering for a moment before his better judgement focuses them back upon the road. The excitement faded from his voice as he continued to speak.
Howard Black: But then? Well, something bad always happens. You get injured and can’t fight. At first you think it’s okay, but then you start getting restless. Yeah, you get to spend time with your family and friends, but it’s not the same. You miss it. You crave it. You secretly dream about getting back into it.
I mean, I only went back because I had to, you know? Like, I really was happy. Dissatisfied? I mean, sure. But I was happy.
Megan the Operator: What made you go back?
Howard Black: I, uh…
He paused, his mind scrambling for an easier explanation.
Howard Black: Well, some “investors” wanted me to go back. You know how combat sports are: shady as shit. So I had to go back or people would be in danger. But now that I’m back and everything is settled, I …
Another pause as he raised the cigarette to his lips.
Howard Black: …I can’t let it go. It’s like a junky who got a taste of smack after years on the wagon: I need that. I mean, there’s still things holding me in place. Those guys know I’m a valuable commodity to them and aren’t going away. But honestly, I could drop it. I could tell people: they’d understand. I guess I just…
Another car zoomed by.
Howard Black: …I just feel like maybe I deserve to be the bad guy.
Megan the Operator: Why do you think you deserve that?
Howard Black: I had to do some bad things when I came back. I had to hurt a friend – one of the dearest friends I’ve ever had. And I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me.
That agonized face of Scarecrow flashed through his mind once more. His chest continued to tighten – talking was hardly helping.
Howard Black: And others. They’ve left for what I’ve done. I fucked everything up. And all I wanted was to protect my family! No one gets it! No one wants to understand!
His voice rose, cracking from emotion as the ugly stale electricity gripped his whole body. Two more cars passed him – he actively restrained his arms from turning the wheel.
Megan the Operator: Andrew, please try to calm down.
Howard Black: Cory! Kaz! Daniel! I’ve hurt them all! And I fucking liked it! Don’t you get it?! That’s the problem. I have these urges. I have this instinct. I destroy everything I touch – it’s all I’m good at. And now I have to go to Phoenix so I can ruin a man’s hopes and dreams. And I’m gonna fucking do it. I’m gonna do it so good.
His jaw clenched, his teeth sinking into the filter of the cigarette to split the paper covering it. His eyes were wide and wild, a dry laugh escaping from his throat in mania.
Howard Black: Yeah, old Alex old pal doesn’t got a snowball’s chance in Hell of getting out of this one. He thinks that shit he drinks is destructive to his liver, wait until he sees what a fucking Kimura will do to his arm. Wait until he sees what a fucking knee to the temple does to his brain. I’m about to go give the poor bastard early onset Alzheimer’s, and people are throwing money at me for this! People fucking love it.
Don’t you get it?! It’s sick – it’s all sick. Ever since 1h3 wav3, the people have wanted blood and we give it to them. We’re murder-junkies, and I’m the king of the butchers. It’s in every aspect of life, from sports to politics to culture. Those #BeachKrew fucks won: we really are as bent-in-half fucked as they said we are.
His voice dropped, the cigarette falling from his lips and onto the seat before him, burning an unnoticed hole into the pleather upholstery.
Howard Black: But I don’t have to be a part of it. I can end this now. All it takes...
A car was approaching in the distance. His body tensed.
Howard Black: …is one. Little. Swerve.
Megan the Operator: Andrew, calm down. Think about your friends and family.
Howard laughed.
Howard Black: Family? My kid and wife are better off without a villain for a father and husband. Without a violent bastard. Shit, I’ll leave them a good life insurance plan, and Joey can get into a good university. And as for my friends…
It was approaching quickly. Howard’s heart raced.
Howard Black: What friends? Who the fuck do I have left? Daniel is gone; John is gone; Cory is gone; Kaz is gone; David is gone. Who’s going to miss me?! Who’s going to even call Sarah to express their condolences?!
It was close. Howard’s hands gripped the wheel – his confidence and decision had been made. The Operator was saying something – some sort of urging for him to reconsider – but he hardly paid her mind.
Impact in Three…
The phone vibrated for an incoming call and Howard’s eyes cast down to view it. As the name registered in his head, his hands pulled the other way, the tires having only veered beyond the yellow dotted line for a second before swerving onto the shoulder and off the highway. The passing car blared an angry horn as it sped past him. As the car came to a halt, Howard’s emotional capacity finally breaking. He drew a deep breath, falling forward to rest his head on the wheel as he exhaled shallowly, his heart racing and his mind aflame.
For the first time in months, Howard cried.
The sobs wracked his body as the past ten minutes flooded through his mind, his eyes shooting down to double-check the name on the Caller ID. It had been no hallucination.
“Kazward
(XXX) XXX-XXXX”
He put the car in park as a trembling hand reached for the phone, the sobs still causing him to shake and sputter for breath. A twitching finger reached for the “Answer” button as he attempted to choke back his sobs, his free hand rubbing to clear the tears from his eyes and cheeks in vain. He raised the phone to his ear, his voice desperate and disbelief – the voice of a castaway calling for a passing ship.
Howard Black: K-Kaz…?
But the voice that responded was not Kaz. It was a familiar voice – cold and gloating. It sounded gleeful, but under that joy lay the familiar sense of threat and wicked seriousness.
The Jackal: No, Howard. No endings. And especially not happy ones. Not for you.
The hallway smelled like vinegar, stale semen and vomit. With each echoing sticky step it felt like the walk was one to the deepest regions of despair. Alessandra Malignaggi stood outside the door, Room 110. Two more steps and she had found her prey. Howard Black had been so obvious, so oblivious, so stupid – even the simplest forms of sustenance have a self-preservatory sense to help carry them through life safe, sound and secure. This man had nothing of the sort. This man was a walking epitaph - ‘Do as you will.’
It was a delightful invitation, one that Alessandra didn’t have to think twice about.
To her right stood one of her paid goons – Jimmy Needles. To the left stood a second silverback thug: Billy Iron. Jimmy spoke in a hushed whisper.
Jimmy: This the one?
Alessandra didn’t even respond, just thought for a moment.
Billy: Boss, you-
Billy spoke in a cadence that was pitched too loud for Alessandra. She turned and thugged a whipping gun butt of her Baretta against his temple, dropping him to his haunches. She regarded Jimmy.
Alessandra Malignaggi: Yes. You are not needed.
Jimmy seemed to understand the finality in her tone, Billy had no such luck.
Billy: BUT BOSS!
His voice was loud – too loud. It was a reaction; it was not even a decision she made consciously as the hammer exploded against the bullet and displayed Billy’s final thoughts of simple subservience on the tattered wallpaper behind him. His body spasmed and he fell awkwardly like a puppet with its strings just ripped away. Alessandra bit her lip and gave a small sigh.
Alessandra Malignaggi: Sorry. Could you be quiet, please?
She smiled at Jimmy, who made the wise executive decision to simply scooped his deceased partner over his shoulder and began carrying him back to their car. Well, so much for quiet. She wouldn’t need it anyway.
Knock, Knock, Knock.
From inside, a voice called out to her. It was one she’d heard many times speak in the ring or on interviews – it was definitely the champion, Howard Black.
Howard Black: It’s unlocked.
She wrapped a delicate hand around the handle, depressing it and pushing it open. Alessandra took a step backward as the door was caught on its hinges.
Howard Black: You need to give it a bigger push. Thing’s a piece of shit.
She didn’t. Stepping inside through the gap, she finally met Howard Black face-to-face. He sat on the cheap, garish motel bed which was clad in an ugly, mottled comforter patterned like the traditional Native art of the region. In one hand, he held an open bottle of Wild Turkey – the thin smile on his lips in this situation more than indicating he’d been drinking. Of course, the comforter and the bottle were of little interest to Alessandra; not when a sawed-off double barrel shotgun was leveled at her in the hands of the Lost Boy.
Howard Black: You know, I could take you down with me...
He paused, his gaze fixed intensely on her. The smile only spread more wryly as he tilted the barrel back to fall beneath his own chin, his eyes still locked on hers.
Howard Black: ...Or I could just rob you of your satisfaction. Which do you think is worse?
Alessandra didn’t so much as raise her gun toward him. This was a much more interesting game.
Alessandra Malignaggi: I’m not here to kill you, Howard.
She took a step toward him; Howard simply continued his gaze fixed on her without so much as a twitch.
She slid herself toward him, closer now. Still no twitch. She drew closer, so close he could smell her – lavender; she could smell him - cigarettes and bourbon. Their eyes never broke the spell the two were weaving between each other. Finally, Alessandra smiled.
Alessandra Malignaggi: I just wanted to get a look at you.
Howard scoffed, tilting the bottle of Wild Turkey to his lips without his eyes – or the gun – moving a centimeter.
Howard Black: You needed a Beretta to get a look?
Alessandra Malignaggi: I needed it as a prop to see your psychological and physiological reaction.
Howard Black: Oh yeah? And how did I do?
Alessandra Malignaggi: Perfectly.
She turned away.
Alessandra Malignaggi: You’re not the one I want.
Howard Black: Then who do you want? Daniel?
Alessandra Malignaggi: Jack.
A dry laugh escaped Howard’s lips – the barrel of the shotgun stayed firmly nuzzled in place. His tone dripped with sarcasm and the faintest edges of melancholy.
Howard Black: If you figure out how to get him, let me know.
Alessandra reached the door, turning to face Howard once more. It was the first time he had seen her smile.
Alessandra Malignaggi: Do you believe in miracles, Howard?
In the moment, time slowed. Howard’s hand weakened, the shotgun sliding from beneath his chin to fall to his lap – still carefully trained on one living target in the room. His lips slid down into a frown, his brow furrowing in a dark, far-off stare. The weight of the small silver crucifix around his neck felt heavy; his voice was quiet.
Howard Black: No. I don’t.
Alessandra Malignaggi: Neither did I.
Howard Black: “Did”?
Alessandra lowered the gun for the first time letting it fall limply to her side. Her hand gripped the handle once more as she shot him one more fleeting glance.
Alessandra Malignaggi: Jack will be gone soon. No, not gone. Dead.
The misshapen door scraped once more to a close, only to be stopped just before shutting the conversation off. In this instance, it wasn’t the rickety frame or a rusty hinge but the grip of the champion on the door as he lunged forward to grab the handle. His voice was low – cold and serious.
Howard Black: What the hell are you talking about?
She reached a hand toward his shoulder – for the first time, he flinched. Her fingers traced lightly downward, taking a lingering second at his elbow before breaking contact.
Alessandra Malignaggi: How’s the arm?
As she walked from the door to the waiting Murcielago, her hips swayed in a rhythmic strut. Howard’s eyes stayed glued to the figure of the woman, but his mind was hardly on the sway of her body or her sudden departure. His left hand rose instinctively to his elbow, that phantom pain surging through as he gently caressed the scar.
He’s back.
She sat on the side of the bed, her hand coming over to rest delicately on his shoulder. Those big, beautiful blue eyes of hers stared at the lines and angles of his face, slowly tracing every scar and crack on the skin she knew so well. Her hand came up to his chin, stroking the unshaven stubble along his chin which seemed to have gone neglected since they last saw one another – Howard was typically a strict one for shaving. He didn’t respond to her touch, his eyes still locked on those cracks in the plaster as she affectionately scratched under his chin. With a soft sigh, she laid down on the bed beside him, turning to press herself against his side and drape a hand over his chest.
The couple laid together in the quiet of the humid Nebraska evening. A storm had begun – the rain pelted their window viciously as a crack of lightning and roll of thunder split the serenity. Sarah nuzzled her face into his neck, the corners of her lips falling down in synchronicity with his. Her hands clutched to his white cotton undershirt tightly, hoping he’d never leave. After a moment of laying in that drone of the weather, Howard’s arm slid down and snaked around her shoulders. A tear slid from her cheek unnoticed as he spoke in a soft, gentle voice.
Howard Black: I wish I could stay.
A second tear slid down her cheek, her arm unwilling to leave him to brush it from her face. In response, she simply clung to him tighter. Her own voice was quiet, wavering behind the choked back sobs.
Sarah Black: You don’t have to.
There was silence. Howard was thinking. When he spoke, his voice was pained and apologetic.
Howard Black: You know I have to.
She nodded against him, struggling to hold back more tears.
Sarah Black: I know.
The silence blanketed the room once more. Lightning struck again, somewhere outside of town.
Howard Black: It was a good day, wasn’t it?
He’d called Sarah just before leaving Kansas City, and she’d made the preparations for his return. Despite the tense and contentious parting of their last meeting, she’d never turn him away. She loved him; Joey loved him. Even if she hated it, she understood. Life threw curveballs so we could adapt – God made us suffer so we could learn to preserve. Her hand came up from his waist to trace a finger along the thin silver chain around his neck.
Sarah Black: It was.
They’d had pot roast – Howard’s family recipe and Joey’s favorite food – and braised vegetables for dinner. Howard hadn’t drank, even though there was beer in the fridge. She was glad he’d opted out; some part of him was still in control. But she worried – she worried a lot.
Sarah Black: I’m going to have Joey write Kaz a thank-you note. I don’t suppose you’ve talked to Kaz recently, have you?
Howard sighed, his other arm now crossing his chest to clasp his hands together around her. He closed his eyes, the name of Kaz hanging heavy on his mind.
Howard Black: I haven’t.
Sarah Black: He might understand if you try. You remember everything that happened with Sophia, right? Everything he told you about? Maybe if you explain the situation you were in and still are, he’ll be on your side.
Howard was quiet once more – how could he even hope to face Kaz? Something had occurred to him in the months since his initiation of the conflict with Cory and his treatment by everyone in the following months: none of the forgiveness he’d extended would be reciprocated. How could he hope Kaz would understand? How could he have the audacity to remind Kaz of his own past, as though holding something above his head?
Sarah Black: You always saw the good in him; why wouldn’t he do the same for you?
Howard sighed before interjecting himself abruptly.
Howard Black: Kaz isn’t going to let things slide that easily.
Sarah frowned deeper, her eyes shooting up the face of her husband with a look of confusion.
Sarah Black: Why would you say that?
Howard Black: Because no one’s let it go. I looked Cory in the eyes. I told him I loved him – and I meant it. I said I was sorry, even if that meant nothing. But I meant it – I fucking meant it. And where was that? Where did that go?
The tension in the room was thick – it could have been cut with a knife. Howard shook his head again.
Howard Black: Why do I think Kaz would be any different? Why do I think he’d offer me that sort of forgiveness?
Sarah Black: You saw in him something almost no one else did. You went out on a limb for him, Howie. You stood beside him at a time no one else would – and you didn’t even do it for gain. You did it because you saw a good man deep inside him. You don’t think he could return that?
Howard Black: If Cory couldn’t then –
Sarah Black: Howard!
Sarah’s voice came loud and sudden, causing Howie to flinch back on reflex. She rolled onto his chest, staring him in the eyes as she spoke.
Sarah Black: Cory. Is not. Kaz! Goddamnit, Howie, can you think for a moment?!
The room was quiet once more. Howard’s gaze stayed looked on those big beautiful blue eyes, now filled to the brim with misty tears. His arms stayed locked around her, pulling her head to his chest as the levee finally broke and she began to weep.
Inside, Howard felt only emptiness. Even in the wake of his wife’s agony, nothing could seem to stir an emotion or feeling from the emptiness the belt had created. It was a deep, black chasm which sucked him in deeper a little more every day as it seemed to consume more and more. When was the last time Howard had felt? When had something truly affected him and brought him back to the surface? Even a day as good as today – in the face of the obstacles before him – had only been gray. Gray was better than black, but gray was still gray.
After a moment of hesitation, Howard spoke.
Howard Black: …I, um… I’ll try next week.
Sarah released him, turning over to her other side. He rolled instinctively, his arms wrapping around her waist in a tight embrace as he pressed his lips to the shoulder beneath her thin gray sleep shirt. He could feel her body heave beneath his arms. Her voice was shaky.
Sarah Black: You don’t have to leave.
Howard was quiet, his eyes moving beyond her to the white walls before him. His voice was quiet.
Howard Black: You know I have to. For you. For Joey.
She sobbed, choking back the tears before gently nodding her head.
Sarah Black: I know.
The two lay in silence for the remainder of the night; Howard hardly noticed when Sarah went to sleep, save the stifling of her sobs. After several sleepless hours, when the clock hit three AM, Howard found peace.
Oh mother, tell you children not to do what I have done
To spend your life in sin and misery in the House of the Rising Son
Riiiiiiiiing
Riiiiiiiiing
You have reached the voicemail box of (…Alex Richards…) please leave your message after the tone.
Hello, Alex; it’s Howard. You must be wondering why you’re getting a call from me, a few days from Meltdown. No mind games; I promise. I’m not calling you to mock you or ridicule you or try to deflate you. I just want to talk when the cameras aren’t on us; it seems like the only time I can drop this act and be straight-forward. I think you deserve that sort of courtesy; you’re probably wondering why I’ve gone at you the ways I have and why I’ve been treating you like this. I have answers – they probably aren’t satisfying to you, but I have them.
Where do I start?
I don’t hate you, Alex. I don’t even dislike you – I think you absolutely deserve this shot. You’re one of the brightest stars in the UCI. The way you’ve risen since the collapse of the WCF is testament to the star you were, shackled by a laughable set of tertiary titles. No, I think we can all agree you have been long overdue for a shot at the title. And here we are, aren’t we? You and I – about to square off in the ring, the champion and challenger. But for all that I could say about you right now – any praise or admiration – I need to be straight up with you. You aren’t going to win this match. This is not your time. Your path towards the top of the mountain is coming to a dead end. I only wish I could tell you how sorry I am that I have to do this to you.
Can I ask you a personal question? I’m sorry if that’s intrusive – I’ve always just been curious. Why do you drink?
I feel like you’ll have some answer about how the party never ends. Maybe you’ll talk about how you like to bring a good time and extend it to others. Hell, I’m sure you’re already eying UCI as the new Sloshed Pit – a traveling bar where there’s never a last call and no one has a frown. I like that idea; it’s sort of a fun fantasy to escape into, don’t you think? But you’ll have to forgive me for projecting; I can’t help but feel there’s something sadder to it all. How’s the man behind the curtain? Is he okay? Is there something else?
I know you’ve had trauma as you grew up; #BeachKrew saw it fit to smear it across every cesspool on the internet and bring it up as often as possible. I’m not going to taunt your trauma, Alex; I admire your strength. We’ve both gone through awful hardships in our lives, and I’ve always used that to make me stronger. I can see that’s not a foreign concept to you; that pain is such a good fuel, isn’t it?
But what about when that pain becomes too much?
I, uh… I drink a bit, too. I drink for lots of reasons. I drink because I honestly hate being on the road, away from home. I drink because it was a lie when they said I wouldn’t feel a thing doing this week in and week out. I drink because I’ve let down those who love me – who care for me. Did you know my wife doesn’t allow my son to watch me on TV anymore? Don’t worry about our marriage – it was a mutual decision. But it still makes me drink. It makes me drink that I haven’t worked up the courage to call Kaz in several months and try to talk to him. I drink because Cory McCready hates me and nothing can fix that. I drink because I don’t want this fucking belt – I wanted it until I realized just how heavy it is. And I drink because I’m going to have to do to you what I did to Cory: I’m going to have to destroy you.
Do you realize I don’t have a choice? It’s my job: I have a gun to my head. I can’t be saved; it’s too late for me.
Imagine, Alex, that you wake up every morning just wanting to make a positive difference in the world. Imagine that all you want is a wife and a son and a quiet home life where you can all grow together. Then imagine that isn’t in the cards; fate hasn’t panned out that way for you. Life isn’t going to let you out like that alive. You have one skill, and everything seems conspired together to make you use that skill.
My skill? To hurt people.
And I’m really fucking good at it, Alex. Did you see what I did to Scarecrow? That wasn’t even intentional – I just cranked that Kimura Lock as hard as I could until he passed out. Hell, I didn’t even hear the tendons snapping, or I’d have let it go! I just did it.
I just do things.
I’m a killer, Alex. I’m starting to realize that. What was that quote? “The blood’s on the wall, so you might as well just admit it”? I’m seeing that blood on the wall, man. And maybe it’s time I turned around and admitted it: I’m really fucking good at hurting people.
I’ve been hurting people since the moment I stepped into a wrestling ring. You can say I’m boring, but I’m the most accomplished technical wrestler in any fed in North America. Tell me, Alex, what do you bring to the table that I can’t? You’re not faster than me – you’re only marginally stronger than me – you’re not a better wrestler than me – you won’t go to the lengths I will. This isn’t bragging – this isn’t even humble bragging. It’s a confession, goddamnit. I can’t stop; I’m losing control. Can’t you fucking see it, man? I’m at Rock Bottom. And all I can do is act on instinct – that instinct is to hurt people.
My journey isn’t going to end here. That’s what I mean when I say I’m sorry that I have to put you down this way. Maybe you think there’s some catch to this whole thing; that these words have to be saccharine and insincere or something. No, they aren’t. I… I promise, man. I mean everything I said about you earlier. You’re great. You’re worthy. Don’t listen to the interviews; listen to me here.
But know what else, Alex? You’re not going to win. You can’t win. Somethings are matters of destiny. Some things are simply written in the sand. One of those things is your defeat at my hands.
The wheel of fate is already spinning; whoever takes this match goes on to face David Sanchez. So who is it? Who has the most at stake: his enemy or the man he’s been called shadow of? I don’t know if you have that killer instinct needed to defeat Sanchez, Alex. And David must be stopped. You think I’m a bad guy? You’re not looking at the bigger picture, man.
I’m sorry that this is your shot; it’s almost unfair for you to be stuck in this position. See, I relate to you, Alex. I see all the blood and sweat you’ve dumped into the ring. Every time you step into the ring, I see a fighter who is going to put it all on the line for a shot at glory. You may not see it, but that’s me too. This company? This career? This belt? This legacy? That’s all I have now. I traded everything – all the happiness in my life – to keep others safe and secure. My reward? This gold plate on a leather strap. I wish I could be you, slaving away for the belt on no circumstance but the sheer desire for prestige and immortality it offers. I remember when I was like that, Alex – that was back before Joey Flash snapped my arm. I miss that Howard; he wasn’t perfect, but he was just himself.
I’m not me anymore, man. I’m an idea. I’m a figure. I’m the villain in this story. And you, Alex? You’re going to be the man cut down in his wake to boost the next man up to bat. After the Archduke of Mass Confusion falls in the ring, the UCI will titter amongst itself as to whom can topple Howard Black. David Sanchez will rise next – sure. He’ll fall just as well. I’ll leave a pile of bodies in my wake; as I said, it’s what I do best. I’m just sorry you have to be one of the members of that pile. I’m so fucking sorry.
But this title, Alex? It’s my ball and chain to bear. This is my cross; my albatross. Kinda funny how those words rhyme, isn’t it – on being a burden of faith and suffering, the other being a burden of contempt. I guess that’s what it comes down to in the end – I hold this belt because I’m the only one who can shoulder that burden. You, Alex? You’re not ready. It’s still yet to be your time.
And when I beat you, Alex? I’m going to have a drink. I’m not going to get “sloshed”; that implies fun. I’m not going to have a good time savoring that pull of Wild Turkey 101 out of the bottle – I’m going to regret it. I’m going to know I’ve stepped on another budding career because I had no choice. I’m going to know that I had nothing left to do but be the villain in this story. I’m going to ruin your hopes, your dreams, your pride. Because I have to. Because that’s what my job as champion requires me to do.
I want you to hate me, Alex. I want you to get in that ring and think about the broken arm of Cory McCready. I want you to think about all the lives that have been ruined in my climb to the top and all the people who’ve suffered under my reign. I want you to think of the cheers of Cory and Shadowlove and the other Guardians. Please. Give me your everything or you won’t even come close to summiting me. Goddamnit, Alex, give me a run for my money. Prove the nay-sayers wrong and show us all something exceptional – show us you belong in this match in spite of all popular perception. That’s the only way you stand a chance. If you come at me with anything less than your best, I’m going to tear through you like a wildfire through grass. I’ll leave you reduced to ash – battered and bruised, a former shell of the man he was. If you at least give your best – if you at least hold your own – you can walk out of this match with your head raised high. That’s all I want from you; the heart of a warrior.
But you need to accept right now that you aren’t going to win this match.
That’s all it can ever come down to, Alex. And when the smoke settles and the dust clears, I wish I could raise your hand before those people. I wish you could get the applause you so deeply deserve for bringing the champion to his limit and back. But I don’t think you’d accept the gesture. You don’t get it – you don’t get me. That’s why I’m giving you this phone call, even though I can imagine you’ll almost immediately delete it. I want to wish you luck and know that at the end of the day it truly is nothing personal; I just have to do my job.
My job is the villain. My job is to ruin your August and send you back into training.
You won’t like it. You’ve been training and pining for so long, you can hardly stand being passed over yet another time. But it happens to all of us; we get a dose of reality. It makes us stronger. It’s what brings us to the top.
One day, you’ll be ready. But today is not that day. Not all dreams come true. Sometimes life doesn’t have a happen ending. Eventually, the bars have to close.
I’m sorry, Alex. I’m so fucking sorry.
Beeeeeeeeep.
I’ve got one foot on the platform, the other foot on the train
I’m going back to New Orleans to wear that ball and chain
It was a long drive for someone with everything to think about. On the first leg of the trip, Howard had listened to an audio book and a few radio shows before attempting to switch over to his iPod – nothing seemed to hold his interest for very long. The miles wound on, Nebraska soon passing in favor of Colorado passing in favor of New Mexico. On the first night, after a strenuous twelve hour drive, he spent the night in Santa Fe. The next morning, it was a seven hour drive all the way into Phoenix – he had to be sure to get to his hotel at a decent time so he’d have time to settle down and focus on the match that Sunday.
But focus didn’t come easy on this drive for Howard – everything seemed to finally be weighing on him. He thought of the sobs of Sarah; the sadness in the eyes of his son as he’d left that morning; the look of agony on Cory’s face as he slipped into unconsciousness; the look of surprise and disappointment on the face of Dune as the belt struck him upside the chin; the anger in Kaz’s voice as he spilled venom into Howard’s voicemail; the callous disgust of Alex Richards; the quiet anger and sadness of David as he ended their partnership; the mockery of Shadowlove; the sneer of Jayson Price. With each passing car, an odd impulse itched at the back of his spine, creeping up and down his arms to his wrists until coaxing itself into his palms and fingers.
What if I swerved into that lane?
His lip trembled – the implications of the thought struck him immediately like a hammer to the chest. He shook his head, reaching up to rub one hand (so as not to lose sight of the road) before returning it to the steering wheel. Still, his body shook with an odd and sinister surge of adrenaline.
Where was he going? To Phoenix? To Chicago? Back to the slavery of the company and title he so loathed? Why hadn’t he stayed home? For everything he’d seen the Jackal do, he’d been able to keep himself and others safe and above water – even when the creature seemed one step ahead, he never felt unable to wriggle himself from a pickle or, at the very least, survive. So what compelled him back onto the road? When had he become so weak as to fall to pieces and do the bidding of this demon? What prevented him from altering fate?
What prevents me from fucking up his whole plan by swerving into this lane?
The thought gripped Howard around the chest, his body now shaking with the same anxiety which had taken control of his hands and arms. His chest felt heavy, like a belt had been tightened around his ribs and prevented him from taking a deep breath. His mouth tasted like copper – the taste of blood and electricity which accompanied any sort of prior attack of “epilepsy” or intense stress. He reached down for the cup holder for his phone – with his thumb he held down the number two to active speed dial and bring up the only number he knew he’d need in serious emergency.
The phone rang twice. After a click, the line came alive, and the voice of a young woman came through the speaker.
Operator: Crisis Prevention Hotline. How may I help you?
The words sent another spike of liquid electricity through his veins, his vision tunneling as he engaged cruise control on instinct alone. He’d never called the number before – he only programmed it recently as a precaution for the feelings he’d been going through: the feelings of emptiness, of hopelessness, of blank apathy and anguish. Now, hearing the voice and understanding what he’d done, he found himself frozen.
Operator: … Sir, are you there?
The concerned tone of the operator snapped him back to reality. Another exit whipped by on the interstate. Howard’s voice shook as he talk.
Howard Black: Y-y-yeah, I am.
Operator: How are you doing today, sir? May I have a name.
He paused, his mind turning over the words.
Howard Black: Andrew.
Operator: Thank you, Andrew. I’m Megan. How are you today?
Howard paused, the gears of his mind slowly turning. Another car raced past him – he flinched on strange instinct as the thought of steel-on-steel and shattering glass hit him like a rock.
Howard Black: I’m, uh… I’m driving to Phoenix right now.
Megan the Operator: You’re driving?
Howard Black: Yeah.
Megan the Operator: What brings you to Phoenix.
Howard Black: I, uh… I have a job to do.
Megan the Operator: I see. Andrew, what brings you to call?
Howard Black: I, um…
He paused – hesitating for a moment before letting go.
Howard Black: I’m not okay. And I need to talk to someone.
Megan the Operator: Well, I’m glad you decided to give us a call.
Her voice was warm and comforting. For a moment, he relaxed.
Megan the Operator: You know, Andrew, it’s unsafe to talk on the phone while you drive, especially if you’re upset.
Howard Black: I, uh… I know. But I’ve got to be in Phoenix by Five. And I’m also in the middle of the desert; I don’t think there’s a rest stop anywhere.
Megan the Operator: I understand. I do think you’ll be fine if you’re a little late to Phoenix – better late than in an accident.
Howard Black: Yeah, I get it. But, um… I’m sort of on a crunched schedule. Honestly, it’s difficult to explain.
Megan the Operator: Does it have to do with your job?
Howard Black: Yeah, a hotel. I mean, it’s really a motel, actually.
Megan the Operator: I see.
Howard Black: I, uh…
Howard fell silent, his eyes glued on the road as words tumbled in his head like clothes in a dyer. No on-coming cars in sight.
Howard Black: I’m thinking about doing something bad.
Megan the Operator: I see. What sort of thing?
Howard Black: Well, uh…
He paused once more. No, he wasn’t going to get into details.
Howard Black: Something bad.
Megan the Operator: To yourself or someone else?
Howard Black: Myself. I mean, I have to do something bad to someone else, but – um – that’s not what’s on my mind right now.
Megan the Operator: What do you mean?
Howard Black: I, uh… I have to hurt someone. And I don’t want to. So I’m thinking about hurting myself instead so I don’t have to hurt him.
Megan the Operator: Why do you think you have to hurt someone?
Howard Black: I fight for a living. Like, professionally.
Megan the Operator: Like a bouncer or sports?
Howard Black: Sports.
Megan the Operator: Does your job make you unhappy?
Howard Black: Unhappy?
Howard scoffed, reaching for his back of cigarettes. With his thumb, he flipped open the top and drew one out between his index and middle fingers.
Howard Black: I hate my fucking job. I hate everything about it. I hate being on the road. I hate being away from my family. I hate the kind of people who get into this business – self-absorbed knuckle-draggers and misogynists. It’s no wonder everyone in this business is an alcoholic; fuck, I’m drinking on a daily basis due to this shit.
Megan the Operator: Do you have a history of alcohol abuse?
Howard Black: No…
Perhaps it was a lie – the bottle had always been a temptation in his times of trial. But how he was presently? He’d never fallen to such lows. He’d never given so willingly into temptation.
Howard Black: I, uh… this is a recent development.
Megan the Operator: Have you considered quitting your job?
He laughed again, placing the smoke in his mouth as he depressed the cigarette lighter on the dashboard.
Howard Black: This is all I’m good at. Can you imagine that for a second? Imagine you’re a kid growing up who just wanted to be a football player. Or maybe take over the farm – I dunno. Then you get to an age where you realize that’s not going to happen; that’s not what life had in your cards.
He paused as the lighter popped out, indicating it was ready. He gripped the knob gently pulling it from the console and raising it to the end of the smoke to ignite it.
Howard Black: But, that roar of the crowd? That crazy cheer and the feeling you get as you do something for people? Like, that feeling is addicting. It’s like crack – it’s fucking better than coffee or cigarettes. So you go into fighting; you’ve had a rough little life, and you think maybe you’d be okay at it.
Turns out? I’m fucking great at it. I’m one of the best goddamn fighters in the world. So you go into the business because that fucking money is too good to pass up. And at first, you love it. You win accolades and respect, something you’ve never really had before. It feels good to be good at something; you love all that praise you never got but always thought you deserved. And soon enough, you find yourself a champion. And the first time it happens? It’s all you’ve ever wanted. After years of struggling to establish yourself, you’ve put your name on the map. You’re a peak – a pinnacle to be strived for. And that? That’s fucking gold.
He paused to take a drag, his eyes lowering for a moment before his better judgement focuses them back upon the road. The excitement faded from his voice as he continued to speak.
Howard Black: But then? Well, something bad always happens. You get injured and can’t fight. At first you think it’s okay, but then you start getting restless. Yeah, you get to spend time with your family and friends, but it’s not the same. You miss it. You crave it. You secretly dream about getting back into it.
I mean, I only went back because I had to, you know? Like, I really was happy. Dissatisfied? I mean, sure. But I was happy.
Megan the Operator: What made you go back?
Howard Black: I, uh…
He paused, his mind scrambling for an easier explanation.
“What if I told you a malignant entity from the desert possessed my wife and threatened to kill her and my son?”
Howard Black: Well, some “investors” wanted me to go back. You know how combat sports are: shady as shit. So I had to go back or people would be in danger. But now that I’m back and everything is settled, I …
Another pause as he raised the cigarette to his lips.
Howard Black: …I can’t let it go. It’s like a junky who got a taste of smack after years on the wagon: I need that. I mean, there’s still things holding me in place. Those guys know I’m a valuable commodity to them and aren’t going away. But honestly, I could drop it. I could tell people: they’d understand. I guess I just…
Another car zoomed by.
Howard Black: …I just feel like maybe I deserve to be the bad guy.
Megan the Operator: Why do you think you deserve that?
Howard Black: I had to do some bad things when I came back. I had to hurt a friend – one of the dearest friends I’ve ever had. And I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me.
That agonized face of Scarecrow flashed through his mind once more. His chest continued to tighten – talking was hardly helping.
Howard Black: And others. They’ve left for what I’ve done. I fucked everything up. And all I wanted was to protect my family! No one gets it! No one wants to understand!
His voice rose, cracking from emotion as the ugly stale electricity gripped his whole body. Two more cars passed him – he actively restrained his arms from turning the wheel.
Megan the Operator: Andrew, please try to calm down.
Howard Black: Cory! Kaz! Daniel! I’ve hurt them all! And I fucking liked it! Don’t you get it?! That’s the problem. I have these urges. I have this instinct. I destroy everything I touch – it’s all I’m good at. And now I have to go to Phoenix so I can ruin a man’s hopes and dreams. And I’m gonna fucking do it. I’m gonna do it so good.
His jaw clenched, his teeth sinking into the filter of the cigarette to split the paper covering it. His eyes were wide and wild, a dry laugh escaping from his throat in mania.
Howard Black: Yeah, old Alex old pal doesn’t got a snowball’s chance in Hell of getting out of this one. He thinks that shit he drinks is destructive to his liver, wait until he sees what a fucking Kimura will do to his arm. Wait until he sees what a fucking knee to the temple does to his brain. I’m about to go give the poor bastard early onset Alzheimer’s, and people are throwing money at me for this! People fucking love it.
Don’t you get it?! It’s sick – it’s all sick. Ever since 1h3 wav3, the people have wanted blood and we give it to them. We’re murder-junkies, and I’m the king of the butchers. It’s in every aspect of life, from sports to politics to culture. Those #BeachKrew fucks won: we really are as bent-in-half fucked as they said we are.
His voice dropped, the cigarette falling from his lips and onto the seat before him, burning an unnoticed hole into the pleather upholstery.
Howard Black: But I don’t have to be a part of it. I can end this now. All it takes...
A car was approaching in the distance. His body tensed.
Howard Black: …is one. Little. Swerve.
Megan the Operator: Andrew, calm down. Think about your friends and family.
Howard laughed.
Howard Black: Family? My kid and wife are better off without a villain for a father and husband. Without a violent bastard. Shit, I’ll leave them a good life insurance plan, and Joey can get into a good university. And as for my friends…
It was approaching quickly. Howard’s heart raced.
Howard Black: What friends? Who the fuck do I have left? Daniel is gone; John is gone; Cory is gone; Kaz is gone; David is gone. Who’s going to miss me?! Who’s going to even call Sarah to express their condolences?!
It was close. Howard’s hands gripped the wheel – his confidence and decision had been made. The Operator was saying something – some sort of urging for him to reconsider – but he hardly paid her mind.
Impact in Three…
Two…
One…
The phone vibrated for an incoming call and Howard’s eyes cast down to view it. As the name registered in his head, his hands pulled the other way, the tires having only veered beyond the yellow dotted line for a second before swerving onto the shoulder and off the highway. The passing car blared an angry horn as it sped past him. As the car came to a halt, Howard’s emotional capacity finally breaking. He drew a deep breath, falling forward to rest his head on the wheel as he exhaled shallowly, his heart racing and his mind aflame.
For the first time in months, Howard cried.
The sobs wracked his body as the past ten minutes flooded through his mind, his eyes shooting down to double-check the name on the Caller ID. It had been no hallucination.
“Kazward
(XXX) XXX-XXXX”
He put the car in park as a trembling hand reached for the phone, the sobs still causing him to shake and sputter for breath. A twitching finger reached for the “Answer” button as he attempted to choke back his sobs, his free hand rubbing to clear the tears from his eyes and cheeks in vain. He raised the phone to his ear, his voice desperate and disbelief – the voice of a castaway calling for a passing ship.
Howard Black: K-Kaz…?
But the voice that responded was not Kaz. It was a familiar voice – cold and gloating. It sounded gleeful, but under that joy lay the familiar sense of threat and wicked seriousness.
The Jackal: No, Howard. No endings. And especially not happy ones. Not for you.
There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun.
And it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy, and God, I know I’m one.
The hallway smelled like vinegar, stale semen and vomit. With each echoing sticky step it felt like the walk was one to the deepest regions of despair. Alessandra Malignaggi stood outside the door, Room 110. Two more steps and she had found her prey. Howard Black had been so obvious, so oblivious, so stupid – even the simplest forms of sustenance have a self-preservatory sense to help carry them through life safe, sound and secure. This man had nothing of the sort. This man was a walking epitaph - ‘Do as you will.’
It was a delightful invitation, one that Alessandra didn’t have to think twice about.
To her right stood one of her paid goons – Jimmy Needles. To the left stood a second silverback thug: Billy Iron. Jimmy spoke in a hushed whisper.
Jimmy: This the one?
Alessandra didn’t even respond, just thought for a moment.
Billy: Boss, you-
Billy spoke in a cadence that was pitched too loud for Alessandra. She turned and thugged a whipping gun butt of her Baretta against his temple, dropping him to his haunches. She regarded Jimmy.
Alessandra Malignaggi: Yes. You are not needed.
Jimmy seemed to understand the finality in her tone, Billy had no such luck.
Billy: BUT BOSS!
His voice was loud – too loud. It was a reaction; it was not even a decision she made consciously as the hammer exploded against the bullet and displayed Billy’s final thoughts of simple subservience on the tattered wallpaper behind him. His body spasmed and he fell awkwardly like a puppet with its strings just ripped away. Alessandra bit her lip and gave a small sigh.
Alessandra Malignaggi: Sorry. Could you be quiet, please?
She smiled at Jimmy, who made the wise executive decision to simply scooped his deceased partner over his shoulder and began carrying him back to their car. Well, so much for quiet. She wouldn’t need it anyway.
Knock, Knock, Knock.
From inside, a voice called out to her. It was one she’d heard many times speak in the ring or on interviews – it was definitely the champion, Howard Black.
Howard Black: It’s unlocked.
She wrapped a delicate hand around the handle, depressing it and pushing it open. Alessandra took a step backward as the door was caught on its hinges.
Howard Black: You need to give it a bigger push. Thing’s a piece of shit.
She didn’t. Stepping inside through the gap, she finally met Howard Black face-to-face. He sat on the cheap, garish motel bed which was clad in an ugly, mottled comforter patterned like the traditional Native art of the region. In one hand, he held an open bottle of Wild Turkey – the thin smile on his lips in this situation more than indicating he’d been drinking. Of course, the comforter and the bottle were of little interest to Alessandra; not when a sawed-off double barrel shotgun was leveled at her in the hands of the Lost Boy.
Howard Black: You know, I could take you down with me...
He paused, his gaze fixed intensely on her. The smile only spread more wryly as he tilted the barrel back to fall beneath his own chin, his eyes still locked on hers.
Howard Black: ...Or I could just rob you of your satisfaction. Which do you think is worse?
Alessandra didn’t so much as raise her gun toward him. This was a much more interesting game.
Alessandra Malignaggi: I’m not here to kill you, Howard.
She took a step toward him; Howard simply continued his gaze fixed on her without so much as a twitch.
She slid herself toward him, closer now. Still no twitch. She drew closer, so close he could smell her – lavender; she could smell him - cigarettes and bourbon. Their eyes never broke the spell the two were weaving between each other. Finally, Alessandra smiled.
Alessandra Malignaggi: I just wanted to get a look at you.
Howard scoffed, tilting the bottle of Wild Turkey to his lips without his eyes – or the gun – moving a centimeter.
Howard Black: You needed a Beretta to get a look?
Alessandra Malignaggi: I needed it as a prop to see your psychological and physiological reaction.
Howard Black: Oh yeah? And how did I do?
Alessandra Malignaggi: Perfectly.
She turned away.
Alessandra Malignaggi: You’re not the one I want.
Howard Black: Then who do you want? Daniel?
Alessandra Malignaggi: Jack.
A dry laugh escaped Howard’s lips – the barrel of the shotgun stayed firmly nuzzled in place. His tone dripped with sarcasm and the faintest edges of melancholy.
Howard Black: If you figure out how to get him, let me know.
Alessandra reached the door, turning to face Howard once more. It was the first time he had seen her smile.
Alessandra Malignaggi: Do you believe in miracles, Howard?
In the moment, time slowed. Howard’s hand weakened, the shotgun sliding from beneath his chin to fall to his lap – still carefully trained on one living target in the room. His lips slid down into a frown, his brow furrowing in a dark, far-off stare. The weight of the small silver crucifix around his neck felt heavy; his voice was quiet.
Howard Black: No. I don’t.
Alessandra Malignaggi: Neither did I.
Howard Black: “Did”?
Alessandra lowered the gun for the first time letting it fall limply to her side. Her hand gripped the handle once more as she shot him one more fleeting glance.
Alessandra Malignaggi: Jack will be gone soon. No, not gone. Dead.
The misshapen door scraped once more to a close, only to be stopped just before shutting the conversation off. In this instance, it wasn’t the rickety frame or a rusty hinge but the grip of the champion on the door as he lunged forward to grab the handle. His voice was low – cold and serious.
Howard Black: What the hell are you talking about?
She reached a hand toward his shoulder – for the first time, he flinched. Her fingers traced lightly downward, taking a lingering second at his elbow before breaking contact.
Alessandra Malignaggi: How’s the arm?
As she walked from the door to the waiting Murcielago, her hips swayed in a rhythmic strut. Howard’s eyes stayed glued to the figure of the woman, but his mind was hardly on the sway of her body or her sudden departure. His left hand rose instinctively to his elbow, that phantom pain surging through as he gently caressed the scar.
He’s back.