Fear and Loathing

This isn't insanity: I'm aware of how absurd this all is.

As I stared down the barrel, fingers wrapped around the grip, my thoughts turned to my dear brother. Even though I'd expected his reaction -- if anything I figured he'd be angrier, then again assertiveness has never been his specialty -- there was a split second, as I settled into the driver's seat and turned the key, the same dark barrel that currently occupied all of my attention seeming to shine in the corner of my eye, that I contemplated grabbing the damn thing and taking a few shots at the dilapidated shithole he called home. Just to see if he could keep the sanctimonious act up while ducking for cover, wallowing in his piss-stained pants. I was a good girl though, and kept myself committed to the previously established plan. Let the turncoat eat the same rejection he dished out so liberally.

My dad used to say: "the only good rat is a dead rat." My dad was an idiot who got shot to death with his own gun during a mugging. I don't listen to my dad's advice.

I didn't sleep that night. Instead I alternated between performing to no one except myself & the gaping maw at the end of my revolver and watching paid programming in relative pitch-blackness, soaking in the dim glow of the screen, eyes absent-mindedly following the movements of enthusiastic androids pitching everything from blanket-robes to knife sharpeners to mops until the first rays of sunlight poked out over the horizon and pierced through the windows.

At the first sight of that incandescent sun, I stumbled in a semi-conscious daze out of my room, not even bothering to conceal my midnight companion which of course netted me a couple of shocked expressions as I snuck out the back door into the parking lot and clambered into my car.

My eyelids slid shut as I closed the door. I shook my head and rubbed my eyes before sticking the key in the ignition.

Chicago was only a couple hours away.

Fucking hell.



First off: I'd like to offer a thank you. For all my talk of being reborn under the War(e)house's lights, of fully accepting my position as the Lord's right hand, it wasn't until a certain moment that I felt that sense of invigoration, that single out-of-body moment where I truly felt it, that indescribable feeling of weightlessness. Of perfection. As I soared through the air and crashed down atop Bonnie Blue -- fitting I dubbed that little maneuver "Divine Intervention" -- it was as if I ascended to a higher plane if only for a moment, just long enough to know what I'm fighting for is in fact real. Thank you, Bonnie.

You cunt.

But, enough about the Star Child.

Let's talk about words. See, words are weapons and if that sounds like the tagline to some sci-fi book that's because it is: Lexicon. Max Barry. Sorry, sidetracked. Where was I? Oh, right. Words are weapons. They are, really. A different type of weapon than your conventional selection, sure. Knives, guns, items of that ilk are weapons of the flesh, but words? Words are the weapon of the mind. All it takes are a few choice words uttered at just the right moment to provoke just about anything.

Like, say, a few words challenging Andre Holmes' ego provoking him to want to end my career. To smother my fledgling hopes and dreams in the crib. To risk the literal destruction of the world, all because I had the gall to challenge his ego. All because I mocked his inane bragging. Because I was unfazed by him blowing smoke up his own ass in order to puff out his chest.

Did I cut you that deep, Andre? Or is this just what you do? Is this why you have that little nickname of yours: "Relentless"? Because you relentlessly make an ass out of yourself on social media, wearing a mocking nickname as if it were a badge of honor without even the slightest traces of irony? Sounds about right.

Oh, but that's not all: see ol' Andre takes time out of his day to rub his successes in the face of those he's oh-so-superior to because he's so definitely above it all. Fucking insecure little faggot. Apologies for the outburst, let me get to the heart of the matter. Though in a sense, I already did. Poor Andre, so insecure he has to project every single minor triumph as if he'd scaled Mt. Everest. Oops, here I am, playing psychologist, analyzing him. He doesn't like being psychoanalyzed. But I'm not in the business of keeping things limited to what he likes. After all, if I did that I'd just be making twisted shrines to the success he so desperately desires.

After all, isn't that why you let yourself be drawn back into the world of combat sports? That desperation for one more triumph, that ever-building fear of looking yourself in the mirror and admitting you're washed up. It eats at you, doesn't it? Feeling each day pass you by, unable to do anything at all to stop the flow of time. Each second that passes brings you one second closer to your last. 'Til you're in the ground, your last thought spent wishing there's no afterlife because blasphemers don't go to heaven. That's what drove you to get up off your ass, to go back on your word -- after all, you were done weren't you? -- and sign your name on that dotted line like a Faustian bargain: all they need is your soul. Your very essence signed over to them. Yourself, a puppet on a string, dancing to the beat you think is required to get your name in lights again.

You are so mutable, aren't ya?

Topic: Morality. You already subscribe to the school of thought that sees life in shades of gray -- the excuse evil people make to excuse their evil deeds -- because after all, you aren't a hero or a villain are you? You're an obnoxious borderline sociopath relentless. You'll do anything: threaten to end someone's career as casually as if you were ordering pizza, shout "na-na-na-boo-boo" at someone you beat, spam gifs across social media like an elderly woman who just discovered emojis. You'll do all of these and more, so long as they get you where you want to be. So of course you'd give up on your retirement, throw your family headfirst into the same risk you claimed to want to protect them from.

Spineless fucking coward. Too scared of fading away to commit to anything for too long.

Are these the lessons you teach your children?

"You're going to have another sibling kids, also it's okay to be a coward with no sense of accountability."

Peek-a-boo, Andre: I see you. I see all of you, not the brave face you put on for everyone else, I see under the skin, under the armor. There's nothing under there. Nothing but blind ambition. Make no mistake about it, Andre: you're right about one thing. You aren't a hero. You're the villain of this story. You're the villain of your own story. I know, it's hard to come to terms with it, so let me break it down for you.

Slowly, of course. I know you aren't the sharpest knife in the drawer. I chalk that up to the nasty spill you must've taken off the short bus as a child. Cracking the back of your skull off the curb could not have helped matters.

You sold your convictions for another shot at glory like the gluttonous little shit you are. You held a championship for three years and yet that isn't enough. You want more and more and you'll take and try and take until you get the hand reaching for the brass ring sliced off. But of course, like a hydra two more grow in its place: groping wildly, one hand for recognition, the other for validation. Without concern for others. Meanwhile, your family, your unborn child are placed right back in the crosshairs. Play family man all you like, you aren't winning Father of the Year any time soon. I mean, if any ills were to befall your precious girlfriend and your unborn child because you dove headfirst into wrestling again, then you'd have only yourself to blame. It'd fall on your conscience… do you even have one of those?

You sure scribbled your name on the contract without much convincing. Did you agonize over it? Did it eat at you even more than your fears of fading into obscurity? I don't think it did. I think you were looking for an excuse, any excuse, to go back to your one true love. Fuck your girl, fuck your kids: this is your real love. Your real passion.

How fucking sad is that?

You have something real, something permanent or at least as permanent as anything on Earth is, and yet you forsake that to chase a dream. A temporary high. Something that will chew you up and spit you out without the slightest hint of sympathy, as it's done to so many and will continue to do until the end of time. For what? That brief validation? That shine? This is your life, Andre: corrupted and possessed by the hunt for gold. It's twisted you into some kind of shrieking caricature.

Don't you get it?

I don't think you do.


I'm sure if I had any deep connection to the city of Chicago, it'd be unbearable to see it now. The once great city -- if you looked past the statewide corruption, the violence, the people, the fucking wind, etc. -- turned inside out, entrails exposed like a partially decomposed corpse left to rot in the sun, picked at by vultures. All because of "1he wav3:" that wondrous little mystery, still baffling, still improbable, still clutching tightly onto the frayed ends of society's collective sanity, refusing to let go. As it stood however, Chicago is just another city: brick and mortar and blood and bone stacked on top of each other to create a metropolis specifically designed to produce the breed of people called Chicagoans. I'm pretty sure that's a bad thing, but whatever.

I'd only been to Chicago once before my new choice of career, and I couldn't say that my memories had anything to do with the city itself.






As I drew nearer to the War(e)house, nestled in the industrial hellhole of Chicago's southeast side, the widespread destruction left in the wake of "1he wav3" mingled with the rust and decay that already plagued the area. You almost had to give it some credit though; the place was still kicking. On its deathbed, sure. Precariously close to flatlining of course. However, the little factories that could still billowed thick black smoke stacks, clinging to life with every fiber of its being.







I don't quite know what I expected the War(e)house to look like, though I couldn't help but feel I should not have been surprised as I was to see it in all its dystopian glory. Of course this grimy windowless building was my salvation. I could already feel the glow from the powered-off neon sign that hung from the front of the building, advertising its existence to all the poor souls who ventured this deep into the urban boneyard.

I let myself fall into the heavy, thick front doors, hands pressed against the hot metal.

This was the first day of the rest of my life.



There's a silver lining to all of this, Andre.

Whether or not you want to believe it: I can fix you. I can make you whole again -- or would I be making you whole for the first time? I can't quite tell, was there something more to you before the pursuit of gold ripped your soul from your body? Or was it the lack of anything more than skin deep that made it so easy to fall under the influence of the devil in gold? The empty glitz, the vacant glamour, all of it. Was it all you ever wanted?

Let me fix you, Andre. Help me help you break free of your chains.

See the light.

You won't do that, will you? No, you're so sure there's not currently a problem. You're certain there's never been a problem. That you're golden and there isn't anything anyone else can do or say that will get you to falter in your beliefs -- what beliefs? -- nothing that can bring you back to reality from your delusions.

Right.

That's why I have to do this, Andre. I have to embarrass you. I have to rip the opportunity at gold you're frothing at the mouth over out of your hands. I have to force you, flat on your back in the middle of the ring, to stare up at the very same lights I was reborn under and think long and hard about everything I've said.

I have to force you to be reborn the same way I was. Well, maybe not exactly the same way. I was reborn in victory. You're so enamored with the concept, victory and the desire for it is so intrinsic in your entire essence that the only way for you to be reborn is through crushing defeat. What better way for us to do that than for you to be so close, to taste guaranteed opportunity on the tip of your tongue, only to have it ripped away in the blink of an eye? Yeah, let's do that.

My God is one for forgiveness, Andre.

You just have to give yourself up to him.

Completely and totally.

Wash away your sins in the glorious light. Feel the weight lift off your shoulders.

Open your eyes.

And see the light.


It had been years since Jack Pembry had last been in Chicago.

Though he was a New York native and felt a certain attachment to his hometown, he couldn't escape the allure of UCI. He'd been a fan of combat sports well before the fall of the Fight Federations and subsequent rise of the Fight Cartels, but he'd grown tired of the local decor; the feral inmates from Rikers had gotten stale. He needed something new to quench his voyeuristic fetish for violence, and the more he heard about the upstart little organization deep in Chicago's rotting underbelly, the more he felt compelled to make the trip once more.

As he shoved his way through the crowd hoping to get a better view of the action, the same swelling joy he thought was a distant memory exploded throughout his body once more. This was special. A night to remember.

Then it happened: some stuttering track of classical music hit the poorly configured speakers and she stepped out of the curtain. He remembered her immediately: the predator that ruined his last visit to Chicago with her dirty tricks, took his money, and most importantly made a fool out of him. He reached into his pocket and felt the switchblade he ostensibly kept on him for "protection" -- if any of his fellow audience members knew who he really was under his smiling exterior they'd know who really needed protection -- and muttered under his breath, an angry smile forming, his thin lips spread to the point where they were practically invisible.

"Peekaboo: I see you."

This time, he had the advantage.