Remember Me
Jun 5, 2016 15:36:13 GMT -6
Bonnie Blue, "Relentless" Andre Holmes, and 3 more like this
Post by Crow McMorris on Jun 5, 2016 15:36:13 GMT -6
REMEMBER ME
“I remember the night they arrived. It was a clear, blue and orange Westchester sunset. The kind of night dreamt up inside a Hollywood mainframe by airheaded Californians. Hanging heavy over this was the stench of a New York summer. The rancidness barrelling over the bay like a drunken platoon. That unmistakable Manhattan odor spread thick upon the suburban evening air. The window of my second floor study was open as, for the fourth time that night, “Greensleeves”by Mantovani echoed across my crisp cut lawn. An expanse of earth still wet from the sprinkler system I often used so fastidiously to keep the local gutter snipes away.”
“Greensleeves, I can honestly say that I hate that composition. It is the sound of elevators and nursing homes. It breeds despair, which was of course, was why I was playing it. So that my arrogant, gentile neighbours, had to endure it's profound agony. Their anti-Semitic lives where dead husks. I wanted them to know that. That's pleasure for me. I am not a Saint. Nor would I ever want to be. Such aspirations are for the weak and the insincere. I simply tell the truth.”
“Perfection, I have come to understand, can be measured in small, innocuous moments. Sitting at my executive desk comprised of fine oak and brass, I allowed my reading glasses to perch with absent dignity upon the hook of my proud Jew nose. I was deep in rumination as I felt peace finally embrace me, a serenity as I watched reruns of Crow destroy jobbers on my plasma screen; my fervent mind contemplating another, impeccably calculated assault upon Professional Wrestling, a world I often ruled with an iron hand, and a cruel heart.”
“It was at this incandescent moment that my vision began to blur slightly. The regular sixty beats per minute of my heart indicated that this was not an irregularity to do with blood pressure. I felt a low hum in my eardrums swell. A buzzing sound as a drone craft floated outside my window. I stood (decked out in my royal blue Donald Trump Pyjama's) and marched quickly to my gun cabinet. Inside, a loaded 405 Winchester (the preferred weapon of Teddy Roosevelt) awaited my military trained trigger finger's poised direction, an antique bestowed to me by my treasured Grandson as a birthday present. It's long, sturdy barrel eager to administer decisive punishment upon my confounded intruders.”
“I removed my glasses to discover that the very ground beneath my feet had begun to shake with a federally backed invasion; the first indication of an approaching SWAT VAN, a black Lenco Bear Cat that was cannoning towards my location at speed as my antique vinyl turntable silenced “Green sleeves” with a jolt of the needle. Once more, the gentiles would know peace as a Jew would know only hate and war. Oh, how things never change!”
“I called my grandson to inform him of my predicament. ZMAC I could not reach. These where short gasps of goodbyes as I was convinced that this would be my exit from the world. The last stand of The Shape, as insanity reigned without my spirited savvy to guide it.”
“I locked the centrefire cartridge into position, knowing full well that this would be a futile gesture. The lone Bear Cat had now been joined by three more similar vehicles. Sirens whaling as my moment of peace had been shattered. All three Vans where stocked to the brim with SRT's (Special Reaction Teams) eager to display to the amassed gentile taxpayers below (aka the scowling Vultures) their automatic weapons training on one, poor, Jew inside; just a man trying to enjoy a summer's night alone. In peace.”
“I pulled back on the hammer of the 405' and aimed at the Vehicles, the first Officer to emerge slipped on a patch of mud, a handy side effect of the sprinklers as they continued their obstant defiance unabated. I almost fired at that moment, the sight amused me so. Still, I erred on the side of restraint as my position became clear. My aim changed target as one clear shot destroyed the hovering drone. A second later, I dropped the rifle and placed my hands behind my head. The SWAT teams barged into my home and arrested me. A black sack was placed over my head as my hands where immobilised by cable ties behind my back. I was marched outside, and driven away from my home.”
“While my eyes where blinded by that sack, I could clearly still feel the presence of the cowards that surrounded me, even while the down force from the police chopper above destroyed my lawn. Inaction is a decision. They made a choice, a choice to allow my rights as an American citizen to be stolen from me. A neighbourhood I had contributed my gregarious personality to for over a decade had abandoned me. This was not my America. It was the America of sheep, of ignorance and narrow-mindedness. This was the America of “The Anti-Amateur Combat and Entertainment Sports Bill”, a supreme court had slipped on a banana skin and burnt the constitution in the process. For the next seventy two hours I was subjected to water-boarding and white noise torture; a procedure otherwise known as Jeremy Borash.”
“Yet the only matter I could think about wasn't my escape, it was what was the angle? Because in the end, there's always an angle. Control, power, money, fame. There's always an angle. But this time? None of it made any sense. Not until “1he wav3” hit. Then the pieces started to fall into place, and the money began to rise to the surface.”
Buddy stops reading from his tablet as he looks up and smiles. The performance is, as always, impeccable. One breath later and he's locked into full pitch mode:
“Speaking of which. Let's discuss money and how you lucky guests from kick-starter can contribute to the completion of this, one of the most ground breaking autobiographies in sports journalistic history!”
The spattering of applause that followed didn't surprise me much. The tour around the WAREHOUSE was serene enough, but the fact that this was still technically a war zone, and our guests where wearing flak jackets twenty four seven, meant that this was strictly a diehards excursion only. Buddy wanted to host the event at Second City, but Fight Cartel reprisals were par of the course these days. The South Side of murderville had became an nineteen eighties retro trip to Beirut, and UCI didn't need the negativity of a bloodbath on their hands. It would take money to wash that kind of mark clean, and money wasn't in an abundance these days. This wasn't the era of the Federations. This was living back in the gutter, with a target painted across your back.
My eyes scour the crowd, a“U” shape that's formed around the ring. In the centre sits myself and Buddy on bar stools, the Shape's dressed as immaculate as ever in one of his navy blue bespoke suits, monogrammed cufflinks shined up for the occasion as he tries to look relaxed and calm as his body sways, ill prepared for the perch upon which he now sits. As for me? Just your standard jeans and tee. No warpaint, that crap's just some theatrical shit. Just window dressing for a cool entrance to get myself noticed and shine on the signature at the start of the show. Just an image I can print on a tee and sell out of the back of a rusting blue Datsun at an airport for seven bucks a pop. It used to be all done online, but my PayPal was hacked by a rival cartel; so now it's all old school. If truth be known? I kinda like it that way. Feels real. Maybe I should have been a salesman; maybe I've always been one.
The hands dart up, now here's the part I detest, the Q an A. It's awkward as the same questions keep arriving; “How did it feel to die?”, “Is there a God?”, “Is it technically necrophilia?”
“Numb”. “Met Him”. “Probably”.
That last one always gets a cheer. People are just fucking weird.
“I thought you and Crow where in Mexico at the time of the incident. Isn't that true? Weren't you and ZMAC scoring coke?”
Fucking smark.
Buddy Roman: Artistic interpretation of real events can often lead to schisms in reality. If you don't believe me, ask that Polar Phantasm, he's a sci-fi nerd just like you. You two can compare notes I imagine.
The Klingon lowered his hand and sheepishly looked the other way. I sniggered.
I see a woman move through the crowd now; hair down and dowdy. Dirty Blonde. She shoves a corpse-painted fat kid aside as he's about to ask a question. Me and this woman, we never make eye contact; she's too ashamed of her natural beauty to look up, or maybe it;s because she thinks I'm the devil. Either way, she's an introspective, probably damaged soul as her target clothes hang baggy on her thin as a rake frame. This one's gonna go south, I can sense it, before she speaks and proves my intuition absolutely right.
Blonde Woman: God doesn't want you hear, does he, Crow? If God wanted you on Earth, he wouldn't have let you die in the first place. And he did leave you to die, didn't he?
I've heard this before. I have my answer prepared as Gramps steps in. Maybe its the success I've had lately, maybe defeating Wade Moor and burying that rotund ghost from my past once and for all has galvanised his option of me, but he seems more focused on my career now more than ever. Maybe he senses it. Buddy Roman, manager of yet another World Champion. The man that bulldozed though Dustin Beaver and his own Father. The Man that sank Wade Moor. This Crow, he doesn't relent or give up. I don't know what being pinned is like in this company and I'm not inclined to discover it now. Erin Fausse is just the latest in line. Cut from the same cloth as this deluded woman, at least on the outside.
Inside though? Erin is very different animal. While this woman is pure in her convictions, Erin is a mirror image of an uncle of mine. A trickster. A man with a thousand lies to tell that smother the truth from view. Erin packs more than a 38' and loathing of her father, she's rotten inside. Corrupted at the core by a world that shrugged at her tragedies. Her story is a common one, it's not unique, but Erin is deluded enough to believe the script needs a rewrite, and that's what makes her dangerous. Because she has that magic formula: conviction. And with that? You can move mountains.
That's how con men come to life. They find a lie they like to lead and that lie becomes an addiction. A dirty needle they want to share with the world. Conmen are always running from something. Family. The law. A failure of some kind. Erin's no different. She's good at her job, but she arrives with baggage.
Just like this woman before me; only she's lamb all the way through. A Chicago native about to be carved and served up before a starving Buddy Roman.
Buddy Roman: Miss, my Grandson is here because of the sacrifice of friends and family. Of the courage of others. You're here because of a certain disposition known as religion. You believe you have to be here today to challenge the validity of my grandsons right to exist because it isn't sacrosanct. I am a good Jew. I take it you're a good Christian. Consider this then, is the world just like us? Or are we tested, each and every day, by those that fall short of our standards, that attempt to twist the knife into our faith and con us into believing huckster interpretations and fake dinosaur parks. I don't drink snake oil ma'am. Forgive me if I'm wrong, but You're an Erin Fausse fan, correct?
A timid nod of the head follows
Blonde Woman: My bible group is following her exploits. We don't condone her actions, but she has faith in the lord. She sins, she lies, but if she finds a way to forgive herself. Then we can find a way to forgive her.
Buddy Roman: But you can't forgive my grandson, for returning to us.
She shakes her head. It don't offend me much. I get this more often than you'd think.
Buddy Roman: Let me tell you something about this Erin Fausse that you follow. Fausse, that name, it's the French for False. Did you know that?
The Blonde woman shakes her head again, her hand reaches for a crucifix beneath her flack jacket as her heart calls for a moment of divinity to answer. But only Buddy speaks, the shape walking that tightrope, he needs to contain this situation, while playing fair. He's up for the challenge, it's Buddy Roman.
Buddy Roman: You want her to forgive herself. Tell me, what happened to you?
Blonde Woman: Excuse me?
Buddy Roman: That scare, on your neck.
I didn't even pick up on it; Buddy sees all and knows all.
Buddy Roman: It was 1hewav3, wasn't it? Someone attacked you perhaps? I was in New York when it hit; I saw the insanity. I heard the screams. Tell me, what happened?
Blonde Woman: There...was a struggle. Yes. Look, maybe I shouldn't have come here.
Buddy Roman: Was it your husband?
The blonde woman doesn't answer. Not for an eternity. Eyes well up,with something that reminds me of shame, but its been so long since I've known that sensation that it's difficult for me to compute. Maybe this is how it starts, the pieces of my life falling away. My destiny, to end up just like my father. Numb to the concepts of humanity.
I dig deep, finding that spark of affinity.
Crow McMorris: It was your son. Wasn't it? He went insane.
She nods.
Crow McMorris: A lot of people did that day.
Blonde Woman: You don't understand. I...I don't understand. All I know is I had to stop him from killing. His sister. His father. He took them before I could stop him. I had to accomplish what the lord gave me strength to do. But when I see you, and hear her, Erin Fausse. I have to ask, who gets to stop you, Crow McMorris?
Crow McMorris: Excuse me?
Blonde Woman: You're the man that cannot die. Who cannot LIVE. One day you'll forget what that means, just like you're father did, one day you'll forget what it means to be alive. To be a man. What happens on that day? Who protects us from you? Maybe you're her catastrophe, the one she has to stop.
I move on instinct ahead of Buddy. If this is her gambit then I'll have to take the bullet, after all, Roman isn't immortal. Thankfully Buddy gets it, the Shape retreats as I speak.
Crow McMorris: Let me tell you something about your Erin Fausse. She weaves lies. Great, boundless lies. Think about it. Just Imagine the level of effort it takes for a hundred and thirty five pound feather to convince herself that she stands a chance against me this week. Tackling a Bonnie Blue or an Andre Jenson commendable, but a whole different weight class. You have to commend her for at least trying I suppose. That sense of purpose. That drive. I wonder where it all comes from? Perhaps her brother. Or more than likely, her subconsciousness. The centre of her lie, her fractured personality spreading out like a cancer to the rest of her Tom Ripley-lite existence. She's damaged. We can relate, you and I. But trust me when I say this, It isn't God, lady, its all her. I suppose in the end, when you think about it, we all collude with the monsters within. Conduct deals with our own devils.
I'm making myself big now as I walk towards her. If she has a gun; I want that blast all to myself. A nod to security has already been made as they encircle but don't engage. Not yet. There's innocents in the crowd to consider. No bloodbath. Not even here.
Crow McMorris: What deal do you think she made, Ma'am? What kind of sacrifice? Her humility for an narcissistic chaser? Her Dorothy Parker diaries for a stalker's spot at the office door of Charles Manson? Yeah, that sounds lie Erin. She's a desperate woman, searching for a way to be taken seriously, so desperate that she becomes a con artist that's so inconceivably fucking stupid as to fling herself into harm's way inside the most unforgiving squared circle in town. Yeah, that's a good long con she has there. That's a con with style. I'm sorry, but when you add up all the numbers, she's just a psycho. And that's it.
Or maybe you think she's a martyr?
Throwing herself to the lions; her penance inside a squared circle where her body will know only pain and regret. You know what she? She's Stephanie Meyer, coming down from her first hit of heroin. A young adult effort at being a flawed human. I imagine that's how the world sees her. A con artist that strings along fools like Andre Jenson like puppets on a sting. Gloats about it in her twitter page then remembers that this week she's up against an actual competitor that knows how to fight. A former champion who has come here with but one express purpose. To be the UCI world heavyweight champion. You asked me what happens if I forget what it means to be human? Look around you lady. Check the fucking décor. This is where you come. This is where you arrive. This is where you fight to survive. I came here because everything you said is true. One day, I may forget what it means to be a man. I might become that monster you speak of. A monster that's a mirror of the one your son became. But on that day? At least I'll know I made it here. To the Warehouse.
I reach her. Fuck. It's a Glock 19, she pulls it away from her jacket. Safety off. Hand shaking. I guess we need new security. These local boys are useless. Or maybe just on the take for a rival Cartel. It's impossible to tell. The crowd around me splits. Buddy is already in the back, I look up and see:
Jim Thuggin: observing the scene from his “Crows nest”. Not my name for it. His office hangs over proceedings that an elaborate skybox: it take me back to the old days. But I can't think about those days now as I ease my hand over the barrel and lower it.
Crow McMorris: I don't believe that Erin Fausse is here to run a con; there no winning for her here; just degrees of losing as her body gives in. Not unless she's running a con on herself. Maybe that's what you see in her. Ma'am. You see that hunt of fatalism. That gun in your hand, it's not for me. You know it won't work. It's not for the people here; you're a good Christian at heart.
Blonde Woman: Shut up!
She struggles to pull the gun away, I won't let her. It's easy. Her body is just like Erin's; paper stretched over bone. A thin membrane of skin that's humbled by the task at hand.
Crow McMorris: It's for you. You came here today to kill yourself. Why? What will that accomplish? You didn't know 1he Wav3 was going to end. You thought you where doing the right thing. Just let go. Let me take the gun from you.
She shakes her head.
Blonde Woman: The night my son murdered his father and sister. I watched. I watched as he slit their throats because I wanted to enjoy the moment. I watched because I was just as insane as he was. And it was that insanity that gave me the strength to kill him when all I wanted to do was die for him. Now the government tells me I have to watch you. I have to watch as you kill each other over your precious titles and belts because that will stop the madness. What kind of life is this? I don't want to be addicted to this insanity. Erin Fausse can't beat you. I can't beat you. Don't you see? This world was made for you. Please, let me leave it.
Crow McMorris: These walls are my world. Outside? Everything else should be yours. It should have belonged to your son. To your husband and daughter. Don't do this, give me a chance to give it back to you. Let go of the gun.
I feel her grip relent as the automatic slips into my grasp. I want to exhale but there's no use for air in my lungs. Still, I manage to be a windbag nonetheless. It's my thing I guess.
Crow McMorris: There are people here, surprisingly good people, that want to find out what happened; to set things right. Stay. Help me find out what happened. Help me put the pieces together, together we can--
Her hands are like lightning; she suckered me in. The gun slips from my grip as she has the barrel placed firmly under her chin. I freeze, there's nothing I can do.
Blonde Woman: I want to give you a gift. This memory. Keep it. Lock it away some place safe. Use it to remember who you are. You don't have to be dead...as long as you remember...
BANG!
Crow McMorris: NO!
My ears ring. I stand motionless, head bowed while wearing my warpaint. A crimson grimace as her body lies smouldering on the floor by my feet. Her face is gone. I remember. Her gift as I look up and see Thuggin' closing the blinds of his office. His distraction is at an end as he reconvenes his business.
I will remember.
SAY UNCLE
Johnny Rabid: So, what was her name?
Johnny Rabid adjusts his customary pristine charcoal suit as he begins to speak; his dulcet tones have an acoustic pitch of treason, a warning sign of danger that echoes around the periphery of his quaint English vernacular, slithering like a stray, snarling dog. Those serpentine words bouncing off the walls of, “The Trophy Room”, this mindscape he invades my subconsciousness with. Searching for answers, always.
Between us, a raging open fireplace acts as a barrier between worlds. Rabid was a spectre from my past, a ghost crossing a bridge now into my present. During my teens he was there for me, a Dickensian benefactor. A man of intricate breeding that flushed the coke from my mother's system. A gent that made sure I had a decent, if uninspiring education. Rich was the vein of normalcy that bleed into my late teens, only to spiral off into the abyss once again once my journey to find my biological father began.
My mother's eyes where always blind to his purpose, but not me; I guess I get that from my father. That edge of cynicism that keeps me ahead of the curve. Until today, when that woman slipped through my fingers.
Crow McMorris: Her name was Edith. She was committed to her mission and had a desire to die for her cause: just the kind of woman you like.
Rabid smirked. It wasn't natural for him to exhibit joy, even in a cynical form. I guessed it was part of his spin program back in England.
Johnny Rabid: So, this week you destroy Erin Fausse, take the title at Lazarus...then what? Use it as a platform to uncover the truth?
Crow McMorris: Something like that.
Rabid moved a piece on that chess board. A white knight to the rescue, it was a sacrificial gesture as the regency era wallpaper around us silently screamed with the souls of those trapped within, the circle of the Black sun; now simply flies in a killing jar. This, their eternal purgatory.
Johnny Rabid: Always remember, I will be there for you; if you fall again. I have the power to catch you this time.
I turned away from those dead eyes of his, searching for the exit. My fist clenched as I hear the echo of a gunshot and a red door appears. I stand. And walk away.
Johnny Rabid: While you sleep, I am awake. And I see, everything. You can't hide from me.
I don't answer. My eyes burst open as I remember that face that is no more, and remember what I must now do.
FIN
“I remember the night they arrived. It was a clear, blue and orange Westchester sunset. The kind of night dreamt up inside a Hollywood mainframe by airheaded Californians. Hanging heavy over this was the stench of a New York summer. The rancidness barrelling over the bay like a drunken platoon. That unmistakable Manhattan odor spread thick upon the suburban evening air. The window of my second floor study was open as, for the fourth time that night, “Greensleeves”by Mantovani echoed across my crisp cut lawn. An expanse of earth still wet from the sprinkler system I often used so fastidiously to keep the local gutter snipes away.”
“Greensleeves, I can honestly say that I hate that composition. It is the sound of elevators and nursing homes. It breeds despair, which was of course, was why I was playing it. So that my arrogant, gentile neighbours, had to endure it's profound agony. Their anti-Semitic lives where dead husks. I wanted them to know that. That's pleasure for me. I am not a Saint. Nor would I ever want to be. Such aspirations are for the weak and the insincere. I simply tell the truth.”
“Perfection, I have come to understand, can be measured in small, innocuous moments. Sitting at my executive desk comprised of fine oak and brass, I allowed my reading glasses to perch with absent dignity upon the hook of my proud Jew nose. I was deep in rumination as I felt peace finally embrace me, a serenity as I watched reruns of Crow destroy jobbers on my plasma screen; my fervent mind contemplating another, impeccably calculated assault upon Professional Wrestling, a world I often ruled with an iron hand, and a cruel heart.”
“It was at this incandescent moment that my vision began to blur slightly. The regular sixty beats per minute of my heart indicated that this was not an irregularity to do with blood pressure. I felt a low hum in my eardrums swell. A buzzing sound as a drone craft floated outside my window. I stood (decked out in my royal blue Donald Trump Pyjama's) and marched quickly to my gun cabinet. Inside, a loaded 405 Winchester (the preferred weapon of Teddy Roosevelt) awaited my military trained trigger finger's poised direction, an antique bestowed to me by my treasured Grandson as a birthday present. It's long, sturdy barrel eager to administer decisive punishment upon my confounded intruders.”
“I removed my glasses to discover that the very ground beneath my feet had begun to shake with a federally backed invasion; the first indication of an approaching SWAT VAN, a black Lenco Bear Cat that was cannoning towards my location at speed as my antique vinyl turntable silenced “Green sleeves” with a jolt of the needle. Once more, the gentiles would know peace as a Jew would know only hate and war. Oh, how things never change!”
“I called my grandson to inform him of my predicament. ZMAC I could not reach. These where short gasps of goodbyes as I was convinced that this would be my exit from the world. The last stand of The Shape, as insanity reigned without my spirited savvy to guide it.”
“I locked the centrefire cartridge into position, knowing full well that this would be a futile gesture. The lone Bear Cat had now been joined by three more similar vehicles. Sirens whaling as my moment of peace had been shattered. All three Vans where stocked to the brim with SRT's (Special Reaction Teams) eager to display to the amassed gentile taxpayers below (aka the scowling Vultures) their automatic weapons training on one, poor, Jew inside; just a man trying to enjoy a summer's night alone. In peace.”
“I pulled back on the hammer of the 405' and aimed at the Vehicles, the first Officer to emerge slipped on a patch of mud, a handy side effect of the sprinklers as they continued their obstant defiance unabated. I almost fired at that moment, the sight amused me so. Still, I erred on the side of restraint as my position became clear. My aim changed target as one clear shot destroyed the hovering drone. A second later, I dropped the rifle and placed my hands behind my head. The SWAT teams barged into my home and arrested me. A black sack was placed over my head as my hands where immobilised by cable ties behind my back. I was marched outside, and driven away from my home.”
“While my eyes where blinded by that sack, I could clearly still feel the presence of the cowards that surrounded me, even while the down force from the police chopper above destroyed my lawn. Inaction is a decision. They made a choice, a choice to allow my rights as an American citizen to be stolen from me. A neighbourhood I had contributed my gregarious personality to for over a decade had abandoned me. This was not my America. It was the America of sheep, of ignorance and narrow-mindedness. This was the America of “The Anti-Amateur Combat and Entertainment Sports Bill”, a supreme court had slipped on a banana skin and burnt the constitution in the process. For the next seventy two hours I was subjected to water-boarding and white noise torture; a procedure otherwise known as Jeremy Borash.”
“Yet the only matter I could think about wasn't my escape, it was what was the angle? Because in the end, there's always an angle. Control, power, money, fame. There's always an angle. But this time? None of it made any sense. Not until “1he wav3” hit. Then the pieces started to fall into place, and the money began to rise to the surface.”
Buddy stops reading from his tablet as he looks up and smiles. The performance is, as always, impeccable. One breath later and he's locked into full pitch mode:
“Speaking of which. Let's discuss money and how you lucky guests from kick-starter can contribute to the completion of this, one of the most ground breaking autobiographies in sports journalistic history!”
The spattering of applause that followed didn't surprise me much. The tour around the WAREHOUSE was serene enough, but the fact that this was still technically a war zone, and our guests where wearing flak jackets twenty four seven, meant that this was strictly a diehards excursion only. Buddy wanted to host the event at Second City, but Fight Cartel reprisals were par of the course these days. The South Side of murderville had became an nineteen eighties retro trip to Beirut, and UCI didn't need the negativity of a bloodbath on their hands. It would take money to wash that kind of mark clean, and money wasn't in an abundance these days. This wasn't the era of the Federations. This was living back in the gutter, with a target painted across your back.
My eyes scour the crowd, a“U” shape that's formed around the ring. In the centre sits myself and Buddy on bar stools, the Shape's dressed as immaculate as ever in one of his navy blue bespoke suits, monogrammed cufflinks shined up for the occasion as he tries to look relaxed and calm as his body sways, ill prepared for the perch upon which he now sits. As for me? Just your standard jeans and tee. No warpaint, that crap's just some theatrical shit. Just window dressing for a cool entrance to get myself noticed and shine on the signature at the start of the show. Just an image I can print on a tee and sell out of the back of a rusting blue Datsun at an airport for seven bucks a pop. It used to be all done online, but my PayPal was hacked by a rival cartel; so now it's all old school. If truth be known? I kinda like it that way. Feels real. Maybe I should have been a salesman; maybe I've always been one.
The hands dart up, now here's the part I detest, the Q an A. It's awkward as the same questions keep arriving; “How did it feel to die?”, “Is there a God?”, “Is it technically necrophilia?”
“Numb”. “Met Him”. “Probably”.
That last one always gets a cheer. People are just fucking weird.
“I thought you and Crow where in Mexico at the time of the incident. Isn't that true? Weren't you and ZMAC scoring coke?”
Fucking smark.
Buddy Roman: Artistic interpretation of real events can often lead to schisms in reality. If you don't believe me, ask that Polar Phantasm, he's a sci-fi nerd just like you. You two can compare notes I imagine.
The Klingon lowered his hand and sheepishly looked the other way. I sniggered.
I see a woman move through the crowd now; hair down and dowdy. Dirty Blonde. She shoves a corpse-painted fat kid aside as he's about to ask a question. Me and this woman, we never make eye contact; she's too ashamed of her natural beauty to look up, or maybe it;s because she thinks I'm the devil. Either way, she's an introspective, probably damaged soul as her target clothes hang baggy on her thin as a rake frame. This one's gonna go south, I can sense it, before she speaks and proves my intuition absolutely right.
Blonde Woman: God doesn't want you hear, does he, Crow? If God wanted you on Earth, he wouldn't have let you die in the first place. And he did leave you to die, didn't he?
I've heard this before. I have my answer prepared as Gramps steps in. Maybe its the success I've had lately, maybe defeating Wade Moor and burying that rotund ghost from my past once and for all has galvanised his option of me, but he seems more focused on my career now more than ever. Maybe he senses it. Buddy Roman, manager of yet another World Champion. The man that bulldozed though Dustin Beaver and his own Father. The Man that sank Wade Moor. This Crow, he doesn't relent or give up. I don't know what being pinned is like in this company and I'm not inclined to discover it now. Erin Fausse is just the latest in line. Cut from the same cloth as this deluded woman, at least on the outside.
Inside though? Erin is very different animal. While this woman is pure in her convictions, Erin is a mirror image of an uncle of mine. A trickster. A man with a thousand lies to tell that smother the truth from view. Erin packs more than a 38' and loathing of her father, she's rotten inside. Corrupted at the core by a world that shrugged at her tragedies. Her story is a common one, it's not unique, but Erin is deluded enough to believe the script needs a rewrite, and that's what makes her dangerous. Because she has that magic formula: conviction. And with that? You can move mountains.
That's how con men come to life. They find a lie they like to lead and that lie becomes an addiction. A dirty needle they want to share with the world. Conmen are always running from something. Family. The law. A failure of some kind. Erin's no different. She's good at her job, but she arrives with baggage.
Just like this woman before me; only she's lamb all the way through. A Chicago native about to be carved and served up before a starving Buddy Roman.
Buddy Roman: Miss, my Grandson is here because of the sacrifice of friends and family. Of the courage of others. You're here because of a certain disposition known as religion. You believe you have to be here today to challenge the validity of my grandsons right to exist because it isn't sacrosanct. I am a good Jew. I take it you're a good Christian. Consider this then, is the world just like us? Or are we tested, each and every day, by those that fall short of our standards, that attempt to twist the knife into our faith and con us into believing huckster interpretations and fake dinosaur parks. I don't drink snake oil ma'am. Forgive me if I'm wrong, but You're an Erin Fausse fan, correct?
A timid nod of the head follows
Blonde Woman: My bible group is following her exploits. We don't condone her actions, but she has faith in the lord. She sins, she lies, but if she finds a way to forgive herself. Then we can find a way to forgive her.
Buddy Roman: But you can't forgive my grandson, for returning to us.
She shakes her head. It don't offend me much. I get this more often than you'd think.
Buddy Roman: Let me tell you something about this Erin Fausse that you follow. Fausse, that name, it's the French for False. Did you know that?
The Blonde woman shakes her head again, her hand reaches for a crucifix beneath her flack jacket as her heart calls for a moment of divinity to answer. But only Buddy speaks, the shape walking that tightrope, he needs to contain this situation, while playing fair. He's up for the challenge, it's Buddy Roman.
Buddy Roman: You want her to forgive herself. Tell me, what happened to you?
Blonde Woman: Excuse me?
Buddy Roman: That scare, on your neck.
I didn't even pick up on it; Buddy sees all and knows all.
Buddy Roman: It was 1hewav3, wasn't it? Someone attacked you perhaps? I was in New York when it hit; I saw the insanity. I heard the screams. Tell me, what happened?
Blonde Woman: There...was a struggle. Yes. Look, maybe I shouldn't have come here.
Buddy Roman: Was it your husband?
The blonde woman doesn't answer. Not for an eternity. Eyes well up,with something that reminds me of shame, but its been so long since I've known that sensation that it's difficult for me to compute. Maybe this is how it starts, the pieces of my life falling away. My destiny, to end up just like my father. Numb to the concepts of humanity.
I dig deep, finding that spark of affinity.
Crow McMorris: It was your son. Wasn't it? He went insane.
She nods.
Crow McMorris: A lot of people did that day.
Blonde Woman: You don't understand. I...I don't understand. All I know is I had to stop him from killing. His sister. His father. He took them before I could stop him. I had to accomplish what the lord gave me strength to do. But when I see you, and hear her, Erin Fausse. I have to ask, who gets to stop you, Crow McMorris?
Crow McMorris: Excuse me?
Blonde Woman: You're the man that cannot die. Who cannot LIVE. One day you'll forget what that means, just like you're father did, one day you'll forget what it means to be alive. To be a man. What happens on that day? Who protects us from you? Maybe you're her catastrophe, the one she has to stop.
I move on instinct ahead of Buddy. If this is her gambit then I'll have to take the bullet, after all, Roman isn't immortal. Thankfully Buddy gets it, the Shape retreats as I speak.
Crow McMorris: Let me tell you something about your Erin Fausse. She weaves lies. Great, boundless lies. Think about it. Just Imagine the level of effort it takes for a hundred and thirty five pound feather to convince herself that she stands a chance against me this week. Tackling a Bonnie Blue or an Andre Jenson commendable, but a whole different weight class. You have to commend her for at least trying I suppose. That sense of purpose. That drive. I wonder where it all comes from? Perhaps her brother. Or more than likely, her subconsciousness. The centre of her lie, her fractured personality spreading out like a cancer to the rest of her Tom Ripley-lite existence. She's damaged. We can relate, you and I. But trust me when I say this, It isn't God, lady, its all her. I suppose in the end, when you think about it, we all collude with the monsters within. Conduct deals with our own devils.
I'm making myself big now as I walk towards her. If she has a gun; I want that blast all to myself. A nod to security has already been made as they encircle but don't engage. Not yet. There's innocents in the crowd to consider. No bloodbath. Not even here.
Crow McMorris: What deal do you think she made, Ma'am? What kind of sacrifice? Her humility for an narcissistic chaser? Her Dorothy Parker diaries for a stalker's spot at the office door of Charles Manson? Yeah, that sounds lie Erin. She's a desperate woman, searching for a way to be taken seriously, so desperate that she becomes a con artist that's so inconceivably fucking stupid as to fling herself into harm's way inside the most unforgiving squared circle in town. Yeah, that's a good long con she has there. That's a con with style. I'm sorry, but when you add up all the numbers, she's just a psycho. And that's it.
Or maybe you think she's a martyr?
Throwing herself to the lions; her penance inside a squared circle where her body will know only pain and regret. You know what she? She's Stephanie Meyer, coming down from her first hit of heroin. A young adult effort at being a flawed human. I imagine that's how the world sees her. A con artist that strings along fools like Andre Jenson like puppets on a sting. Gloats about it in her twitter page then remembers that this week she's up against an actual competitor that knows how to fight. A former champion who has come here with but one express purpose. To be the UCI world heavyweight champion. You asked me what happens if I forget what it means to be human? Look around you lady. Check the fucking décor. This is where you come. This is where you arrive. This is where you fight to survive. I came here because everything you said is true. One day, I may forget what it means to be a man. I might become that monster you speak of. A monster that's a mirror of the one your son became. But on that day? At least I'll know I made it here. To the Warehouse.
I reach her. Fuck. It's a Glock 19, she pulls it away from her jacket. Safety off. Hand shaking. I guess we need new security. These local boys are useless. Or maybe just on the take for a rival Cartel. It's impossible to tell. The crowd around me splits. Buddy is already in the back, I look up and see:
Jim Thuggin: observing the scene from his “Crows nest”. Not my name for it. His office hangs over proceedings that an elaborate skybox: it take me back to the old days. But I can't think about those days now as I ease my hand over the barrel and lower it.
Crow McMorris: I don't believe that Erin Fausse is here to run a con; there no winning for her here; just degrees of losing as her body gives in. Not unless she's running a con on herself. Maybe that's what you see in her. Ma'am. You see that hunt of fatalism. That gun in your hand, it's not for me. You know it won't work. It's not for the people here; you're a good Christian at heart.
Blonde Woman: Shut up!
She struggles to pull the gun away, I won't let her. It's easy. Her body is just like Erin's; paper stretched over bone. A thin membrane of skin that's humbled by the task at hand.
Crow McMorris: It's for you. You came here today to kill yourself. Why? What will that accomplish? You didn't know 1he Wav3 was going to end. You thought you where doing the right thing. Just let go. Let me take the gun from you.
She shakes her head.
Blonde Woman: The night my son murdered his father and sister. I watched. I watched as he slit their throats because I wanted to enjoy the moment. I watched because I was just as insane as he was. And it was that insanity that gave me the strength to kill him when all I wanted to do was die for him. Now the government tells me I have to watch you. I have to watch as you kill each other over your precious titles and belts because that will stop the madness. What kind of life is this? I don't want to be addicted to this insanity. Erin Fausse can't beat you. I can't beat you. Don't you see? This world was made for you. Please, let me leave it.
Crow McMorris: These walls are my world. Outside? Everything else should be yours. It should have belonged to your son. To your husband and daughter. Don't do this, give me a chance to give it back to you. Let go of the gun.
I feel her grip relent as the automatic slips into my grasp. I want to exhale but there's no use for air in my lungs. Still, I manage to be a windbag nonetheless. It's my thing I guess.
Crow McMorris: There are people here, surprisingly good people, that want to find out what happened; to set things right. Stay. Help me find out what happened. Help me put the pieces together, together we can--
Her hands are like lightning; she suckered me in. The gun slips from my grip as she has the barrel placed firmly under her chin. I freeze, there's nothing I can do.
Blonde Woman: I want to give you a gift. This memory. Keep it. Lock it away some place safe. Use it to remember who you are. You don't have to be dead...as long as you remember...
BANG!
Crow McMorris: NO!
My ears ring. I stand motionless, head bowed while wearing my warpaint. A crimson grimace as her body lies smouldering on the floor by my feet. Her face is gone. I remember. Her gift as I look up and see Thuggin' closing the blinds of his office. His distraction is at an end as he reconvenes his business.
I will remember.
SAY UNCLE
Johnny Rabid: So, what was her name?
Johnny Rabid adjusts his customary pristine charcoal suit as he begins to speak; his dulcet tones have an acoustic pitch of treason, a warning sign of danger that echoes around the periphery of his quaint English vernacular, slithering like a stray, snarling dog. Those serpentine words bouncing off the walls of, “The Trophy Room”, this mindscape he invades my subconsciousness with. Searching for answers, always.
Between us, a raging open fireplace acts as a barrier between worlds. Rabid was a spectre from my past, a ghost crossing a bridge now into my present. During my teens he was there for me, a Dickensian benefactor. A man of intricate breeding that flushed the coke from my mother's system. A gent that made sure I had a decent, if uninspiring education. Rich was the vein of normalcy that bleed into my late teens, only to spiral off into the abyss once again once my journey to find my biological father began.
My mother's eyes where always blind to his purpose, but not me; I guess I get that from my father. That edge of cynicism that keeps me ahead of the curve. Until today, when that woman slipped through my fingers.
Crow McMorris: Her name was Edith. She was committed to her mission and had a desire to die for her cause: just the kind of woman you like.
Rabid smirked. It wasn't natural for him to exhibit joy, even in a cynical form. I guessed it was part of his spin program back in England.
Johnny Rabid: So, this week you destroy Erin Fausse, take the title at Lazarus...then what? Use it as a platform to uncover the truth?
Crow McMorris: Something like that.
Rabid moved a piece on that chess board. A white knight to the rescue, it was a sacrificial gesture as the regency era wallpaper around us silently screamed with the souls of those trapped within, the circle of the Black sun; now simply flies in a killing jar. This, their eternal purgatory.
Johnny Rabid: Always remember, I will be there for you; if you fall again. I have the power to catch you this time.
I turned away from those dead eyes of his, searching for the exit. My fist clenched as I hear the echo of a gunshot and a red door appears. I stand. And walk away.
Johnny Rabid: While you sleep, I am awake. And I see, everything. You can't hide from me.
I don't answer. My eyes burst open as I remember that face that is no more, and remember what I must now do.
FIN
