Jack Mirror Part 2: Get What You Deserve

Soon the lakes will freeze.

As all things reach their eventual end, so will this rustic beauty of dense fall aromas and warm hues, suffocated by the grip of the incoming frost. The pleasantries of the autumn's calm will be replaced with the sharp intake of winter's discomfort. Every inhale will carry a sharp pain, every morning an uneasy adjustment to a season made of inconveniences and tedious frustrations, and every night a bracing for the tumultuous winds that seem far beyond bearable even for small patches of time.

I don't remember the last time I spent this season not dreading the one that will immediately follow, but that's how we live, right? Gold could pour from the sink and we'd be worried about when it'll stop. Fall is beautiful, but winter is the hanging dread that manages to kick people in the head as they try to walk along and enjoy the changing of the leaves.

But if you turn it around, its all a transition. Fall is part of the world dying so winter doesn't take the rest of it. Its only natural to look into the wasting void of ice and shit or else we'd have died a death of merry ignorance, right?

I stare at the title, sitting in the headquarters of all Rekt 'Em based activities (aka The Warehouse we rent to film most of my shoots), and I mean the real Television title, not the monstrosity I parade around in front of the audience, with its Andre side plates and rainbow tint. No, that's just a tool. I kept the real title, but carrying it in private settings so I'll have spent sometime with it before someone inevitably takes it away.

^"Crack?"

That's all I've been thinking about since I've won this title, how I'll lose it. My winter. So fleeting is my grip on it or anything regarding my future that the only thing I can focus on is the certainty that it will, one day, no longer be mine. Ice, slush, and frost. Everyone wants it, they're asking for it, and someday, by the law of probabilities, they will be gratified.

^{"Crack, you there?"}

I had a nightmare some weeks ago that I laid in the center of the ring as people wrestled around me. I felt my loss coming. One of them would pin me. The anticipation killed me, sitting there, arms and legs failing to move, a body failing to fight. I couldn't even emit a scream. At one point some faceless mass made the cover and pulled my title off of me, and I laid there.

^{"CraAAAAaaaaaack..."}

And laid there. And laid there. He raised the title over his head. The title had my face on it, but now it was his and I laid there, the lights growing brighter until I woke to the blare of the sun coming in through the blinds.

"Crack," I feel a kick against my chair. Looking up, I see Bran peering over his newspaper, the rest of Rekt 'Em around the table with cocked eyebrows as I drift from my daze back into the real world.

"Hmm?" I awkwardly muster.

"You worry about losing that title too much, come back to Earth for a second, will ya?"

"Ask any champion and they'll tell you that's all they have time to think about," I resume staring into the bright radiance of my wondrous belt, "Its what makes the whole thing work. You know, the whole championship...game...thing. You live in anxiety. You sleep with it. You fight with it. Soon, not even desperation tactics are too low for you. You plunge into your worst, going as far as biting someone's ear off. Laugh, but see if they don't reel back."

"Seems extreme."

"People don't fuck you if you're willing to take the whole plane down. Any title reign worth mentioning was built by desperate men and women scared of losing," I sit in silence for a moment, a pregnant pause wafting through the air, left stuck on the idea of a Champion's Despair, "...Its a miserable state-of-being."

"Then why have the damn thing to begin with?"

"Because even misery without company is better than not having a title," I laugh, the ends tinted in bitterness as I set the belt off to the side, "There are two things I've learned in my life: no one likes you when you're twenty-three, and no one cares about you without the gold. In fact, to them, there is no YOU without the gold.

"That's why there is no way I will let Avery hold this title."

"Ahh," Bran utters as if he finally understood everything. Sometimes I really hate him, "So, that's whats going on."

"Nothing is 'going on', you oaf," I walk away from the table over to the mini-fridge where I pull out a beer, more for the sake of distance from Bran than needing a drink, "If you did any research on my opponents, and in that sense OUR opponents, you'd have heard the man, and in turn you'd want to deny him any chance at a title too.

"The title would be perfect for him, it would make him a giant in this company. SKYROCKETING ONTO THE MAIN SCENE! Pretty face, talented, and relatable? By god, it would be the death of the rest of the roster if he could wear this around his waist. HAHAHA! Another straight white male with a bright smile and a generic-default-factory-setting demeanor finding success in this country, oh this is surely the land of opportunity...for a certain type of boring. So he can never get it. No matter how hard he fights, no matter how hard he is willing to scrape for it, he NEVER gets my title."

"Isn't he undefeated?" Bran invites a side of the conversation I am not comfortable with. I stop mid-step, looking over at him, he doesn't even bother to lower his newspaper to check my reaction.

"I guess...," I see Richard and Golden Johnson darting glances between each other before looking back at the Bran and I, "So what of it?"

"Oh nothing," Bran shrugs, "...though, I have been wondering. Whats it like to have the SECOND best win/loss record in UCI, right now?"

He doesn't see the bottle flying in his direction. It tears through the newspaper, but lucky for him, and lucky for me I guess, it misses his head completely before shattering on the concrete behind him. Without hesitation, he shoots up from his seat, staring me down. No smirk. No wit. No sarcasm. Just anger.

"The fuck is your problem?!" He walks up and bumps chests with me.

"You want to pull that shit with me?" I gave Bran a stiff poke in the chest with my pointer finger. I should be happy with my record. There is nothing to be ashamed of one loss out of fifteen matches. I shouldn't feel so bad about it all, but I do... "I'm out there doing REAL work. All he does is scratch is head over 'how could my opponents all be so different from me and my unimaginative ass?' while I'm trying to lock a legacy in place. You want to tell me that white bread deserves more than the scraps of food picked out of my shit?"

"That's vivid," Richard chimed in from a distance, but with a quick glance in his direction, he looks away, trying to pretend he wasn't involved.

"You wanna know why he doesn't deserve a UCI title?" I feel my nails digging into my palm, but I pay mind to it as I'm lost in my tirade, "Because he is STILL talking about his LAST company, and his LAST Title. That bitch is too stupid to realize this is the future. So, he lives with ghosts. He has those memories wrapped so firmly around his dick, that he is practically living in his 'glory days'. Its the only way to explain his inability to pick out that this ain't Kansas anymore, because no one gives a goddamn about those titles but HIM, and he will find out VERY quickly that he will be thrashed up and down that entrance ramp by every veteran of this company if he doesn't get his shit together."

Bran sighs and rubs his forehead, "I'm not trying to fight with you, Crack. Just trying to get you to listen to yourself half the time. You know, like I've been doing for years now."

"Ever considered what I say isn't a product of whim, but that of knowing exactly what I mean?"

"All the time until you start sounding like a crazy person," Bran motions to the smashed beer bottle behind him, "I mean, what the hell is that shit about?"

"Its about feeling small in a world where you are already small," I turn away, a tremble shoots through my spine, "you wouldn't know, but its terrifying to know that most of the people I will ever fight will tower over me. So, when I get to hold onto some tremendous, its beyond anything I could've imagine. That terror doesn't go away, but its joined by an...excitement. You think you'll never get this chance again.

"To think that all could go away fighting Avery...It'd be like I've got my ass kicked and kept coming back for no reason. I can't even put it into words how unfair it would be of the universe if he walked away television champion. I know, at one point, I'll lose this title, but not to him. Never to him. Even if by desperation..."

The whole team sits in silence.

"So you won't be taking his invitation to show up to the ring alone?"

"Hell no," I turn back, letting out a light chuckle, "that bitch is just gonna have to deal with it. Now enough of this talk of winters, its time to work."

-_-_-

What elaborate set up has the Rekt 'Em boys prepared for us? Well, the camera fades into a large audience crowded tightly around fancy tables applauding in front of a stage with highly detailed...phallic statues spray painted gold. A man at a podium lifts an object over his head which appears to be a smaller form of the statues to either side of him before he is escort stage left by two ripped men in skimpy man thongs,

On a screen in the background it reads 'The Cummies'. Yes, an award show put on for the benefit of the Gay Porn industry. Truly there are no barriers which cannot be broken!

The following Awards have been given out.


As Hans Zimmer leaves the stage a loud booming voices comes over the speakers.

"Now, presenting the award for Best Bottom, last year's winner: Jack 'The Crack' Schlongson."

Our protagonist steps out onto the stage, greeted with applause - a nice change I'm sure he would agree - and makes his way to the center-most podium.

"Lovelies, many would say that stepping away from the bed to work full time in the ring, that I was 'taking the easier job'," queue easy laughter, "but, in that joke, there is a truth. 'Taking it' in this industry is more than just laying around, and its for this reason that Best Bottom is a prized award in our industry, recognizing those who have really taken a pounding over the last year.

"From riding to all fours to long nights on your back, the job of the bottom is never done, as it often seems that there is always another person who is ready to make you his for a minute or an hour at a time. So, without further to do, the winner of best bottom is..."

Jack opens the envelop and peers in. A smile spreads across the lips of our lovely little hero. Looking into the camera, he gives a little wink before turning the envelop around to reveal the name


"Well, isn't this a nice little surprise," Jack nonchalantly tosses the envelop to one side and places both his hands firmly on the podium, "Now, I'm sure you must be confused, my Miles-O-Love, but I assure you, there is no mistake, the award is indeed meant for you.

"I know what you might be thinking, that's not the role you figured you have in our little exchange, was it? You thought that this was gonna be cut and dry, with you walking away from a tired and beaten Jack, right? Oh, little Avvy-poo, I'm afraid this director has different plans for you. But don't feel bad, its a role that has to be filled, there is no shame in it, because if it was left empty, neither this or our industry would survive. So, if you think about it that way, you are providing an essential service by taking it when its your time to take it, and what better time when you've been on top for sooo long that it has to be boring now, right?

"Now, you might still be wondering why YOU get this award when there are so many who end up on their back way more often. Good point, baby, but that's the thing about awards like these, no actors gets one for being in A LOT of movies, but for being in a movie where they did their job so well that people are practically throwing gold at them. Well, this week, the extent I plan on making you my bitch will be obscene. It will be such a thorough playing of the part that you will have properly earned this prized statue of ours, and it'll be yours to do with as you see fit.

"There is no shame in this. You have no reason to feel bad about this. Like every winter for the last million years, its bound to happen right? Your streak couldn't remain untouched forever, right? I mean, take it from me - which you will be at Overload - I was undefeated for a while to, and I was fighting people much tougher than you were, and even I couldn't keep it up, so at least you'll be taking an L from someone relevant. In a sense, I'll be making you look good, hehe.

"Remember, you are performing a duty for your industry. By counting the lights, you'll assure the world that this title - which looks amazing around me by the way," the camera pans down to show the custom title around Jack's waist, Andre side plates and all, "will continue to grow as one of the top belts in the company. Give in, Avvy-poo, let The Crack get hold of you and show you the greatness you want to have. I might let you lick my title afterwards, hehe. Oh, and don't worry about coming to get this little statue, I'll bring it with me and give it to you personally."

Jack kisses the little phallic statue and raises it over his head as the crowd erupts in cheers. Two men in thongs walk up and escort Jack off the stage as a funky guitar riff plays in the background.

-_-_-

I sit out on my porch, staring out at the cascading of oranges and reds as tree limbs bare themselves before me. Turning over a leaf betwixt my fingers, I admire the stark change from the monochromatic greens that Spring and Summer brings. A chill breeze rolls over my skin and out into the ever onward, drowning the landscape in a pleasant calm. Jeff sits by my side, nodding off in the rocking chair on our porch, our fingers interlocked. We haven't fought all week.

A rare time when everything is where I want it to be.

A snapshot.

It won't last forever.

No, but it'll last for this moment, a rare commodity, to be able to hold it and observe it.

Winter will come to break the spell. A whole country half buried in snow.

But now remains in the center of my palm, trapped in my grip. The winter will come when it does, but I have today, something so few truly have in the end.

I begin to hum Que Sera Sera to myself and a sleeping Jeff as we rock in unison back and forth.