Post by Crow McMorris on Jun 19, 2016 15:49:17 GMT -6
GHOSTS
Sunday, 12th of June. Post Lazarus.
I did it. I was the World Heavyweight Champion. Jay Omega had proven to be every bit as vicious and as stubborn as I knew he would; he fought and held on like a man possessed, but this was my night, my time. No Maratopian song and dance act was going to circumvent my fate. I had worked too fucking hard, for too damn long, to be denied now. I was a bulldozer, programmed and sent forth on a path of destruction from minute one. This was my goal; and at 11.03pm, on a Sunday night in a rainy, malcontent Chicago, that goal was finally accomplished.
I knew as soon as the bell rang though, that they'd be pockets of resistance. That legion of oh-so-knowledgeable voices out there among social media who would somehow know better. The beta breed in their grime infested basements who would whisper click bait nonsense to each other on social media. All desperate to give themselves a limp rise and praise Wentworth's shove, rather than the thirty plus minutes of orchestrated hell Omega and I put each other through. As if that one moment was the deal breaker that cost Jay the match.
This, from an army of faceless idiots who have never set foot in a ring. We live in strange times indeed.
Now me? I know for a fact that Omega leapt from that turnbuckle with blood in his eyes. Blinding him on the way down. Even if he didn't choose the timing, Jay never could have seen that I was only playing possum on the mat, never could have outmanoeuvred the Murder of Crows that struck him like a thunderbolt from out of nowhere. Jay never stood a chance, because I nailed that diamond cutter with every ounce of technique and ferocity I had. And for most, that's a weight that breaks a man. No, the outcome would have always remained the same. The pin, simply a formality after a hard fought battle were one of us came up short.
Right now Jay is probably too sore to admit this, but in time he will. He'll have to if he's to overcome the loss and pick himself up for the hard fight ahead, the battle that I know is to surely come. Once more with feeling. Once more we'll clash. I look forward to underlining my victory over Jay with another one. Just to seal the deal and confirm what I already know. That I am the better man. I am the battle standard for this Company. A weight that will not break me, but make me as my legacy is defined with match after match.
Shock, stunned crowds. Controversy. These are the building blocks for my reign. The foundations for whatever is next on the horizon. No matter what, I am the first Champion of this company. World Champion...fuck! Just allowing those words to roll around my skull with my name attached? It just seems like a dream. One that's a long time coming. And now that it's here? One I will never let go.
For two long now the world has been programmed to believe that a man such as me can't win the big one. That I don't have the photofit of someone that gets his moment to shine, to flourish under the hot lights and show the crowds what I can really do. Yet, when that chance did finally arrive? When I was allowed to be front and centre for the first time? That's exactly what I did. I flourished. I was hungry, and I feed upon the poor bastards that they threw into the pit with me. I didn't flinch, no existential crisis to cloud my vision and dull my execution. Just a swift kill, followed by a pause. Then the next victory, and the next. My father. Erin. Wade. Now Omega. I've buried ghosts, overcome upstarts and earned the respect of my father. This path has been a rich one indeed.
Yet, all were still just runs on the ladder, until tonight. Now the peak has been reached as I sit aloft upon a tall stack of rusting containers, a precarious tower of babel that looms over the Warehouse venue like a stack of discarded dominoes; their odd, disjointed shadows burning a chaotic darkness into the empty arena floor below as I lean over the edge and see the blood stains reach out like crooked fingers in the mat, the impact point my body had smashed into eighteen months earlier. The night I died.
I feel an eerie sense of deja vu envelope me now, the cries of Chelsea Armstrong and the warm lights above where the last experiences I can recall before my death. I'm not sure what returned six months later to be honest, I don't think I'm the same man I was; there are gaps where personality traits should be. An incomplete jigsaw. I don't feel self doubt, but I also lack any real amount of compassion. It's an indiscriminate loss; some good, some bad.
With my demise I gained a sense of cold purpose that guides me now like a missile; allowing me to finish off opponents with a distant sense of sportsmanship. No conscience now to get in the way of a victory if needs be. I know that, for example, that Buddy Roman is evil to his core, but he is a good manager. So pragmatism wins out. Besides, he's my Grandfather.
Yet, I can still hear that gunshot. Edith, dying in front of me. Why does it still matter to me now? Or is that the point? It will ALWAYS matter; the conscience I need to do some good. I don't know. It all seems fleeting, as most things do to me these days as the venue lies empty and silent, the crowds left hours ago. The ring crew has departed. Even Spencer Adams, Betty's Adam's ambitious baby boy, all grown up now and the main man behind the entire cartel; has somehow managed to slip away with a smile and a friendly, congratulatory wave.
It was just me now and, somewhere in the gloom, where evil dwells and festers and laughs was, Vincent “Buddy” Roman; my Cheshire cat grinning Grandfather; the devious, wondrous mastermind of my ascension. Roman is a hybrid creation in truth, a Shape whose DNA is spliced square down the middle between Willy Wonka and Satan. The Mephistopheles with all the answers; a manager benevolent in tone, yet malevolent in action. Roman, the imposing omen of my success, who promised me the golden ticket at the end of a four week war, and somehow, miraculously, delivered.
With my face caked in paint and blood I knew no one was higher in this company than me as I held the World Championship belt loosely in my upturned palms, the leather straps folded and pressed neatly behind the heavy metal name plate as my feet dangled carelessly over the edge of this final, highest container. My eyes stared deeply into the belt's gold and metallic blue sheen as it's glare hypnotised me back with the dark, terrible expanse of the universe. Vast in scope, infinite in purpose.
Past and present collided in an instant as constellations and galaxies mapped out my fate; drawing parallels between my fatal fall and rebirth. Was I destined for all of this from the very beginning? To die and be reborn? Do such plans exist for men? Who makes them?
I drifted away from this reality; towards a netherworld of choices that lead me to a crossroads of odd, unrecognisable worlds. A mosaic of faces I did not know spoke to me as if we were friends; times and actions that were unfamiliar to me unravelled before my eyes with a clarity that only comes from actual memory. Then, a final sharp blast of light relented to reveal...
A glint of moonbeams dancing upon a still river at night. The sharp odour of pines swept in from a nearby forest, flaring my nostrils with clean, crisp air. Off in the distance I could hear a single church bell ring. It echoed with an unnatural clarity; as if pinpointing only my hearing alone.
A bell that tolled only for me.
While below the clamer of the bell, a layer of mist evaporated that once hung heavy upon the river, revealing Foam Lake beyond. The small Wisconsin town had been silent for so long. I asked the ores-man in front of me if this was our destination. A large fellow draped in a cape and a hood of humble, dark green cloth.
Crow McMorris: Odin? Is that you? I can smell the Poon Guinea weed and the blue ribbon beer on yer breath.
Odin Balfore removed his hood to reveal a shock of long flowing, white hair. The small boat we occupied gently continued its propulsion as the ores where raised. Rocking gently, side to side, as our huge frames adjusted to the sight of each other. This would be a bad spot for a brawl.
Odin Balfore: It's something “like me” your talking to. You've passed through Warriors Gate. This is your journey. It begins here, as others around you attempt to derail it and take it apart.
Warriors Gate. Those words didn't mean anything to me yet. I wanted answers. Owning a World championship does that to you; makes you impatient. You just want everything to hurry along.
Crow McMorris: So, what does that mean, Norseman? Too much coke? I need coke now. I'm an undead bastard. It's my thing.
Odin Balfore: You don't have to tell me. I know your father, remember? At least, what I represent knows you father. A meaner bastard I have yet to meet. Callous, cruel. ZMAC: good with drugs, bad with hookers. You're walking his path now; there's a time and place where that would have repulsed you.
Crow McMorris: Repulsed me? Yeah well, that's not me. Not even close. I'm not this man you speak of. I'm not this “Other Crow” that had morals and some such. Even before my death, I never carried a torch the way he did. Moral piety was never my thing, it was his. To a fault.
Odin Balfore: You saw his face on the way here?
Crow McMorris: Yeah, I saw his face...MY face. The face of a man that stayed and watched the world burn. His world died and he choose to stay behind and face the fire when Bonnie, Omega and Polar jumped ship. That was his choice, because that was where he belonged. I saw a lot of his choices, good ones, bad ones. When I stared into the belt to all became clear. His life, a thousand lives. All those choices with my face. Maybe that one Crow managed to make it through though; a few atoms here and there. Perhaps his body is reconstructing now on a world that will welcome him. But it ain't mine.
Odin Balfore: He is not welcome among us.
Crow McMorris: And whys that?
Odin Balfore: Because he is not a world champion. You are. This is Warriors Gate. This is where the echoes of Champions now reside. Each World title belt has one. A world title, with a world all of it's own. When you looked into the metal, you carried over your history into this land and populated it with us. Imprinted it upon the steel. Your memories of former title holders, are now free. And they welcome you.
The bell tolled once more. Foam Lake began to close in as Odin rowed the boat closer to shore. A single light shone in the window of a large lake house that sat perched next to a small wooden waterfront and deep water dock. The rustic 1830's design stood out as owls fluttered and perched expectedly across the pier, eager to serenade their guest. I scowled as they departed upon my arrival. Even here; their gaze remains upon me.
Crow McMorris: I haven't seen ICE Beckman in years.
Odin Balfore: Well, it's your memories of him. If he's aged, blame you.
Crow McMorris: Good point.
Odin Balfore: I'm a Norse wizard. It's what I do.
Crow McMorrris: Why ICE first though? Why not Corey Black or Jeff Purse?
Odin Balfore: An upbeat man with a support system. Sound familiar to you? Your first challenge out there in the real world is a man a named Chase Jackson. He has his Avery and his Colt and that support system of his that wraps him up in cotton wool each week and tells him how very, very important he is. Yet what is he? If not this years ICE. This years man that has it all, yet tells you nothing. There's no core to a man like Chase. You're going to have to show him what it means to be a champion fo you're going to best him, to continue on your legacy and fix the mystery that exists here. Being a champion, it's not always about standing with others, but about standing on your own when it counts. Take that support system away from Chase, and what's left now lies huddled in a lake side house not far from here. Fix ICE, understand Chase. And once you can understand?
Crow McMorris: I can defeat. Chase is a good man. But a man whose mind is a gestalt of other ideas. He's like a Chinese whisper, whatever he was at the beginng of his journey has been told and retold by others so many times that the real Chase Jackson has gotten lost in the shuffle. Doomed to blindly be lead this way and that because everyone has his best interest at heart. Only none of them seem to know, or remember where that heart actually is. And now, neither does Chase. That's how Erin managed to beat him, it's takes a con, to spot a con.
I exited the boat, a few moments later it left the jetty under a veil of mist. Odin's deep, boisterous laughter boomed across the water before I lost sight of him. I turned around and faced the house. Nothing more to do now but go forward.
DING! I rang the doorbell and waited for a response.
“What's the password?”
The voice belonged to Buck Fucker. ICE Beckman's peculiarly named right hand man; he was ICE's number one soldier back in the day when it came to matters concerning drinking, and or tomfoolery. Personally? I didn't know the guy that well, and to be honest, I don't think anybody else knew the slightly slower-than-most gentleman either. But then, that was always Beckman's plan when it came to himself and anyone else involved in the ICE age. Keep your distance. Stay under cover. Don't invite anyone inside, just stay back and enjoy the show. That thick layer of permafrost served ICE well at the beginning, before it became a jail cell for Beckman. After awhile the world lost track of him, stopped caring. And Beckman? He lost his place within the roster. He fell off the radar and lost his game; just when a Dune was gearing up to attack and take everything he had away from him. Everything that truly matters...The World Heavyweight Title.
Buck Fucker: Password!
Knowing Buck, It could be as simple as “beer”, or perhaps “free porn”. But Beckman was a student of my Grandfather, so I can assume the answer is--
Crow McMorris: Hate. The password is hate.
Buck Fucker: FUCK A TOAD ICE! He knows man! The stranger, he knows!
Crow McMorris: Just open the fucking door, numb nuts.
The door creaked open as Buck exited. His dumb, bounding frame was covered with cobwebs as he lumbered outside. A sadness etched across his rather plump, stupid face. Those rosy cheeks of his seemed shallow all of a sudden. The perpetual butt of every joke lowered his oversized head and waited for a bout of sympathy that never arrived.
Buck Fucker: Ice, he wants to speak to you alone. The others are gone. DEE, PJ. Ever since John's death he hasn't been the same. And when Dune...
Crow McMorris: Yeah, I can imagine. In fact, I'm imagining it right now.
Buck Fucker: Time for me to go “bing bong”, then?
Crow McMorris: Yup.
Buck disappears, his memory cast upon the wind as I enter. Inside, the place has a Mrs Havisham, “Great Expectations” vibe to it as cobwebs hang from every flickering light fitting and damaged heap of smashed furniture. I can smell the heavy musk of unwashed slob and Wild Turkey linger on the air. We got ourselves a full on drunk right here. Grandfather would not be pleased.
Crow McMorris: Beckman! Beckman, can you hear me?
My foot casually kicks over a bottle of whiskey as I check out the dark spaces of the hallway for signs of human life. A doorway nearby leads into a study: John's study. The centrepiece of the house and a mausoleum for a dead brother's memory. I find Beckman crouched in the corner of the room, huddled away from the moonlight. His slender frame is covered in cobwebs, it's as if he's an abandoned doll left to rot in toy box. A rogue house spider scurries across it's domain as Beckman flicks the creature away from his eyes, eyes that are haunted by a loss that he cannot shake. Echoes of Beckman's failure twitch in his bloodshot skin; the only signs of life that his stone faced expression exhibits.
Crow McMorris: Ice...it's me. Crow. You used to tell obvious jokes about me that weren't funny. Remember?
So yeah, I'm poking fun at a catatonic. So sue me. Don't worry, this sight sickens me too.
Crow McMorris: Get up, ICE! Get up and fight! Fight me now! You hear me? You're a former World Champion. FIGHT ME!
A rage came over me as I saw him lying there. This is no way a man should die. His pupils upturn as they face me, struggling to find my direction. A moment, then I hear a faint gasp of breath as life discovers Beckman's body once more. Short shallow breaths inhale and exhale from his broken frame as it tries motion again for first time in a long while; struggling to stand.The man that Chase Jackson could one day become.
Crow McMorris: Do you know who I am now? I am the Word Heavyweight Champion! Wanna hear a punchline even you couldn't draw? My last name...is McMorris. Yeah, ZMAC is my father. And I have the world heavyweight belt around my waist. Everyone pegged me for just another Steeltoe Joe; just another nearly man that had a good heart; but no prize. Now I'm the man with no heart, yet all the gold. That's sacrifice I suppose. Difficult to tell in my current state.
Ha...
HAHA....
ICE: Ha...hahaha...HAHAHA! You're...
Crow McMorris: World Champion. Yeah. I know. You want a pen and an ease to capture the hilarity?
Beckman shook his head. His frail body stumbles and leans against a bare brick wall. His eyesight turning away from a framed picture of him and John hanging over a fireplace.
ICE: He took my belt. How did you get it back? From...from him.
Crow McMorris: I didn't. This is a new journey. New challenges. I just wanted to honour you somehow. The sacrifice you made. Week in and out. You deserve more than this. You need to be remembered, Natural ICE Beckman. That effort. That commitment. Even your shitty you tube video of me. Which by the way, was shitty.
ICE: Shitty? Fuck you! I fucking broke box office records lampooning that fed! I was the face of the drunk tank! I sold out venues! I was a Vapour King! I made the belt sing! Each and every week I would set a new standard no once could reach. I entertained! I made the people laugh! What did you do? You told sad, ponderous tales of a man with no memory. Pretentious twaddle! You didn't deserve a title shot. You got the purgatory championship instead. It was just where you belonged.
Crow McMorris: Different man, different time. I evolved, while you stood still. That's how he caught you, wasn't it? You stood still. And the quicksand, it found you.
ICE: You already know the answer that that. Why ask the question? What do you want?
Crow McMorris: I want you to be the champion that you once where, not the ghost that you've become. Odin said this was Warriors gate. The hallowed grounds of champions. So be that champion, ICE. Help me. Help me make this new legacy strong. Be strong for the future. Stronger than what a Bonnie Blue can become. She lives in the shadow of her legacy, I want to exceed mine. To take my name and make it greater, not sulk behind it and bring it up every five minutes when I'm stuck for something to say.
Do it, for Buddy.
ICE: W-what?
Crow McMorris: Buddy Roman is my Grandfather. I know about the hate, how you conquered it, welded it. I've used it to, but it's different for me. Maybe it's how I died, I dunno, but there's a part of me that's safe from it. Secure. There's a hate in this belt, ICE. It runs right through it's centre. I work for a new company now, the UCI, it has a boss named Jim Thuggin. If you knew what I know about him.
ICE: What, you d-died?
Crow McMorris: He's on his way. I can sense his presence. Ice, focus. The hate. Where's it coming from?
ICE: It's...from the bell tower. If you want to discover it's heart, you'll have to journey there. You said he was on his way, you mean?
DUNE.
Crow McMorris: Prepare. You have no choice. Fight this time. Fight with all you have. Fix your legacy. Goodbye, ICE
ICE waved as the blinds to the study suddenly began to fill with searing orange light from a burning Mojave sky as Beckman straightened his body, muscle definition returning to his tired limbs as his heart began to fill with a rage and focus, the kind only a former World champion could possibly summon. While, arriving from out from the white light that now engulfed the room, stepped PJ and DEE and Buck. Friends standing by their hero. Until the very end.
The bell tolled once more as I fell. Reality returning to me. I have been yanked back into the Warehouse by an unseen force. Something dark and terrible that lived inside the belt itself called time upon my excursion. Below me the mat arrived at speed. This time my undead limbs could take the impact. It wasn't exactly a three point landing. But my bones didn't shatter either. I heaved myself up as the belt rested next to me. I would have to journey back into Warriors Gate and fix this. The belt, the UCI itself, had something evil living at it's heart. That's territory I promised Buddy Roman.
Edith's gunshot rings out again.
Fuck! Now I remember...conscience. Okay, I'll fix this for the right reasons. Promise.
Slow applause rings out as Buddy Arrives. His face is beaming.
Buddy Roman: Seven dollars ninety nine each. That's how much each and every household in Chicago had to pay to watch you dismantle that Christ Prattle fool and his idiotic sense of self importance. Seven dollars and ninety nine. This, my boy, is why capitalism never gets old.
Crow McMorris: Spencer actually went with the plan?
Buddy Roman: My dear boy, of course he did. This company needs money. We need money. People are willing to pay because they NEED to. Look at you, you need to get ready for tonight. It's your time, my Grandson. Your inauguration into a higher state of being. You're a world champion now. That means responsibility! That means you set the standard going forward! So tonight, we go forward, and party!
THE PARTY
Elmwood park's Stereo Night club had never seen anything like it. This was a UCI invasion; Gable and Adams lead the charge as the drinks flowed and all the drugs where consumed. A thick, heavy odour of weed hung in the head like a wall of joy as beneath I leaned against the bar and downed a wild Turkey on the rocks, a clink of my glass against the belt for a lost, departed foe. One who I hoped would find some peace in the end.
“Hello, Crow. I see the champion has arrived”
I turned to see Johnny Rabid; dressed as always in his dark charcoal suit and tie, that demeanour of quite menace not so easy to disguise whilst being surrounded by party goers and revellers. He seemed awkward in this environment, yet as always in control, as he ordered a cognac and attempted to smile once again.
Johnny Rabid: Nice belt, son. Thuggin's design I take it? It's a little ostentatious for my tastes. Odd sheen, but I suppose it will do.
“You say ostentatious, We American's say, functional”
Buddy had never met Rabid before tonight, but there was always animosity between them; I think that's why I find it easy to forgive Buddy for many of his faults; when it comes to Rabid, he always finds a way to make up for it.
Buddy Roman: It's a wondrous thing, isn't it? The belt. That gleam, that glint of golden light upon it's blue azure surface, I would call it, “hypnotic brilliance”; the kind that draws followers in far and wide. Such as yourself. Now, Crow here, he has to be strong for this belt. He has to protect it. Nurture it even. After all, he is the first. The one that carries it for the many that will follow. Now, Mister Rabid. Are you here to place you name in the hat?
Johnny Rabid: I'm Crow's uncle, not his competitor. As the boy's “Grandfather” you and I should be on the same team, don't you think? After all, we both only want what's best for Crow's interests. Just a little word of advice for next week, son, About this Bonnie Blue.
Buddy Roman: Ah, Bonnie Blue. What was her last claim about you, Johnny? That you were Jack the Ripper? Where you also perhaps Tutankhamen as well? Or maybe the Loch Ness Monster? I don't think you have to concern yourself with this woman any more, Mister Rabid; this is Crow McMorris standing in front of us. My Grandson. Crow has no fear of dime-store science fiction fables or the Saturday morning cartoon heroes that fight them. Bonnie Blue is a woman who has a pedigree locked away in her DNA; a three time world champion. That's impressive, but it isn't her. Its her “father's” legacy. Now, Crow; his father. His ACTUAL father. He's a multiple time Tag champion, an internet and hardcore champion. But never the world. So, what does our Crow do here upon first asking? He completes the puzzle. He honours his father by achieving what ZMAC has so far never been given the proper opportunity to achieve. And that, that makes this Grandfather very happy. Now tell me, “Johnny”. Did you ever honour Jim Thuggin' this way?
Rabid smirks
Johnny Rabid: The belt is important, I'd admit. The achievement, very...admirable. But Crow here needs to take care from those that now incircle him. Dangerous vultures like Bonnie Blue, an oddball who's quite a few pennies short of a pound if you ask me. The woman's a crazed fantasist. An individual of obvious emotional distress that has hooked up with two like minded terrorists to hound Crow with ideas of conspiracies and aliens cover ups, attempting to lure him into their world. I'm here because Crow's mother called me, worried about this Bonnie Blue and what she represents. She has in the past been responsible for personally stealing sensitive records of mine and attempting to blackmail me with them. She claims to be a “guardian” Of what exactly? Of lies? Of half truths she can peddle later to the highest bidder? She indeed has Johnny Reb's blood. But not his integrity. Be careful, boy. Behind that smile and mischievous wink is something quite rotten. Take care of this problem for me quick next Sunday at Overload? And I'll reciprocate your due diligence by taking care of yours.
Crow McMorris: And that problem would be?
Johnny Rabid: I'm growing stronger, Crow. The Circle of the Black Sun was just the start. Once I have all the pieces in place? Those that wish to hunt you down? They'll be working for me. Even this Blackwater company you've managed to annoy; they'll be in my pocket. Where they belong.
Johnny Patted the belt on my shoulder before walking away.
Johnny Rabid: As I was saying, Mister Roman. It's a nice belt. But I have other trivialities to attend to. Good day.
Crow McMorris: That's Good Day...World Champion.
The world continues to turn as Johnny walks away, and this belt of mine, keeps asking me questions.
FIN
Sunday, 12th of June. Post Lazarus.
I did it. I was the World Heavyweight Champion. Jay Omega had proven to be every bit as vicious and as stubborn as I knew he would; he fought and held on like a man possessed, but this was my night, my time. No Maratopian song and dance act was going to circumvent my fate. I had worked too fucking hard, for too damn long, to be denied now. I was a bulldozer, programmed and sent forth on a path of destruction from minute one. This was my goal; and at 11.03pm, on a Sunday night in a rainy, malcontent Chicago, that goal was finally accomplished.
I knew as soon as the bell rang though, that they'd be pockets of resistance. That legion of oh-so-knowledgeable voices out there among social media who would somehow know better. The beta breed in their grime infested basements who would whisper click bait nonsense to each other on social media. All desperate to give themselves a limp rise and praise Wentworth's shove, rather than the thirty plus minutes of orchestrated hell Omega and I put each other through. As if that one moment was the deal breaker that cost Jay the match.
This, from an army of faceless idiots who have never set foot in a ring. We live in strange times indeed.
Now me? I know for a fact that Omega leapt from that turnbuckle with blood in his eyes. Blinding him on the way down. Even if he didn't choose the timing, Jay never could have seen that I was only playing possum on the mat, never could have outmanoeuvred the Murder of Crows that struck him like a thunderbolt from out of nowhere. Jay never stood a chance, because I nailed that diamond cutter with every ounce of technique and ferocity I had. And for most, that's a weight that breaks a man. No, the outcome would have always remained the same. The pin, simply a formality after a hard fought battle were one of us came up short.
Right now Jay is probably too sore to admit this, but in time he will. He'll have to if he's to overcome the loss and pick himself up for the hard fight ahead, the battle that I know is to surely come. Once more with feeling. Once more we'll clash. I look forward to underlining my victory over Jay with another one. Just to seal the deal and confirm what I already know. That I am the better man. I am the battle standard for this Company. A weight that will not break me, but make me as my legacy is defined with match after match.
Shock, stunned crowds. Controversy. These are the building blocks for my reign. The foundations for whatever is next on the horizon. No matter what, I am the first Champion of this company. World Champion...fuck! Just allowing those words to roll around my skull with my name attached? It just seems like a dream. One that's a long time coming. And now that it's here? One I will never let go.
For two long now the world has been programmed to believe that a man such as me can't win the big one. That I don't have the photofit of someone that gets his moment to shine, to flourish under the hot lights and show the crowds what I can really do. Yet, when that chance did finally arrive? When I was allowed to be front and centre for the first time? That's exactly what I did. I flourished. I was hungry, and I feed upon the poor bastards that they threw into the pit with me. I didn't flinch, no existential crisis to cloud my vision and dull my execution. Just a swift kill, followed by a pause. Then the next victory, and the next. My father. Erin. Wade. Now Omega. I've buried ghosts, overcome upstarts and earned the respect of my father. This path has been a rich one indeed.
Yet, all were still just runs on the ladder, until tonight. Now the peak has been reached as I sit aloft upon a tall stack of rusting containers, a precarious tower of babel that looms over the Warehouse venue like a stack of discarded dominoes; their odd, disjointed shadows burning a chaotic darkness into the empty arena floor below as I lean over the edge and see the blood stains reach out like crooked fingers in the mat, the impact point my body had smashed into eighteen months earlier. The night I died.
I feel an eerie sense of deja vu envelope me now, the cries of Chelsea Armstrong and the warm lights above where the last experiences I can recall before my death. I'm not sure what returned six months later to be honest, I don't think I'm the same man I was; there are gaps where personality traits should be. An incomplete jigsaw. I don't feel self doubt, but I also lack any real amount of compassion. It's an indiscriminate loss; some good, some bad.
With my demise I gained a sense of cold purpose that guides me now like a missile; allowing me to finish off opponents with a distant sense of sportsmanship. No conscience now to get in the way of a victory if needs be. I know that, for example, that Buddy Roman is evil to his core, but he is a good manager. So pragmatism wins out. Besides, he's my Grandfather.
Yet, I can still hear that gunshot. Edith, dying in front of me. Why does it still matter to me now? Or is that the point? It will ALWAYS matter; the conscience I need to do some good. I don't know. It all seems fleeting, as most things do to me these days as the venue lies empty and silent, the crowds left hours ago. The ring crew has departed. Even Spencer Adams, Betty's Adam's ambitious baby boy, all grown up now and the main man behind the entire cartel; has somehow managed to slip away with a smile and a friendly, congratulatory wave.
It was just me now and, somewhere in the gloom, where evil dwells and festers and laughs was, Vincent “Buddy” Roman; my Cheshire cat grinning Grandfather; the devious, wondrous mastermind of my ascension. Roman is a hybrid creation in truth, a Shape whose DNA is spliced square down the middle between Willy Wonka and Satan. The Mephistopheles with all the answers; a manager benevolent in tone, yet malevolent in action. Roman, the imposing omen of my success, who promised me the golden ticket at the end of a four week war, and somehow, miraculously, delivered.
With my face caked in paint and blood I knew no one was higher in this company than me as I held the World Championship belt loosely in my upturned palms, the leather straps folded and pressed neatly behind the heavy metal name plate as my feet dangled carelessly over the edge of this final, highest container. My eyes stared deeply into the belt's gold and metallic blue sheen as it's glare hypnotised me back with the dark, terrible expanse of the universe. Vast in scope, infinite in purpose.
Past and present collided in an instant as constellations and galaxies mapped out my fate; drawing parallels between my fatal fall and rebirth. Was I destined for all of this from the very beginning? To die and be reborn? Do such plans exist for men? Who makes them?
I drifted away from this reality; towards a netherworld of choices that lead me to a crossroads of odd, unrecognisable worlds. A mosaic of faces I did not know spoke to me as if we were friends; times and actions that were unfamiliar to me unravelled before my eyes with a clarity that only comes from actual memory. Then, a final sharp blast of light relented to reveal...
A glint of moonbeams dancing upon a still river at night. The sharp odour of pines swept in from a nearby forest, flaring my nostrils with clean, crisp air. Off in the distance I could hear a single church bell ring. It echoed with an unnatural clarity; as if pinpointing only my hearing alone.
A bell that tolled only for me.
While below the clamer of the bell, a layer of mist evaporated that once hung heavy upon the river, revealing Foam Lake beyond. The small Wisconsin town had been silent for so long. I asked the ores-man in front of me if this was our destination. A large fellow draped in a cape and a hood of humble, dark green cloth.
Crow McMorris: Odin? Is that you? I can smell the Poon Guinea weed and the blue ribbon beer on yer breath.
Odin Balfore removed his hood to reveal a shock of long flowing, white hair. The small boat we occupied gently continued its propulsion as the ores where raised. Rocking gently, side to side, as our huge frames adjusted to the sight of each other. This would be a bad spot for a brawl.
Odin Balfore: It's something “like me” your talking to. You've passed through Warriors Gate. This is your journey. It begins here, as others around you attempt to derail it and take it apart.
Warriors Gate. Those words didn't mean anything to me yet. I wanted answers. Owning a World championship does that to you; makes you impatient. You just want everything to hurry along.
Crow McMorris: So, what does that mean, Norseman? Too much coke? I need coke now. I'm an undead bastard. It's my thing.
Odin Balfore: You don't have to tell me. I know your father, remember? At least, what I represent knows you father. A meaner bastard I have yet to meet. Callous, cruel. ZMAC: good with drugs, bad with hookers. You're walking his path now; there's a time and place where that would have repulsed you.
Crow McMorris: Repulsed me? Yeah well, that's not me. Not even close. I'm not this man you speak of. I'm not this “Other Crow” that had morals and some such. Even before my death, I never carried a torch the way he did. Moral piety was never my thing, it was his. To a fault.
Odin Balfore: You saw his face on the way here?
Crow McMorris: Yeah, I saw his face...MY face. The face of a man that stayed and watched the world burn. His world died and he choose to stay behind and face the fire when Bonnie, Omega and Polar jumped ship. That was his choice, because that was where he belonged. I saw a lot of his choices, good ones, bad ones. When I stared into the belt to all became clear. His life, a thousand lives. All those choices with my face. Maybe that one Crow managed to make it through though; a few atoms here and there. Perhaps his body is reconstructing now on a world that will welcome him. But it ain't mine.
Odin Balfore: He is not welcome among us.
Crow McMorris: And whys that?
Odin Balfore: Because he is not a world champion. You are. This is Warriors Gate. This is where the echoes of Champions now reside. Each World title belt has one. A world title, with a world all of it's own. When you looked into the metal, you carried over your history into this land and populated it with us. Imprinted it upon the steel. Your memories of former title holders, are now free. And they welcome you.
The bell tolled once more. Foam Lake began to close in as Odin rowed the boat closer to shore. A single light shone in the window of a large lake house that sat perched next to a small wooden waterfront and deep water dock. The rustic 1830's design stood out as owls fluttered and perched expectedly across the pier, eager to serenade their guest. I scowled as they departed upon my arrival. Even here; their gaze remains upon me.
Crow McMorris: I haven't seen ICE Beckman in years.
Odin Balfore: Well, it's your memories of him. If he's aged, blame you.
Crow McMorris: Good point.
Odin Balfore: I'm a Norse wizard. It's what I do.
Crow McMorrris: Why ICE first though? Why not Corey Black or Jeff Purse?
Odin Balfore: An upbeat man with a support system. Sound familiar to you? Your first challenge out there in the real world is a man a named Chase Jackson. He has his Avery and his Colt and that support system of his that wraps him up in cotton wool each week and tells him how very, very important he is. Yet what is he? If not this years ICE. This years man that has it all, yet tells you nothing. There's no core to a man like Chase. You're going to have to show him what it means to be a champion fo you're going to best him, to continue on your legacy and fix the mystery that exists here. Being a champion, it's not always about standing with others, but about standing on your own when it counts. Take that support system away from Chase, and what's left now lies huddled in a lake side house not far from here. Fix ICE, understand Chase. And once you can understand?
Crow McMorris: I can defeat. Chase is a good man. But a man whose mind is a gestalt of other ideas. He's like a Chinese whisper, whatever he was at the beginng of his journey has been told and retold by others so many times that the real Chase Jackson has gotten lost in the shuffle. Doomed to blindly be lead this way and that because everyone has his best interest at heart. Only none of them seem to know, or remember where that heart actually is. And now, neither does Chase. That's how Erin managed to beat him, it's takes a con, to spot a con.
I exited the boat, a few moments later it left the jetty under a veil of mist. Odin's deep, boisterous laughter boomed across the water before I lost sight of him. I turned around and faced the house. Nothing more to do now but go forward.
DING! I rang the doorbell and waited for a response.
“What's the password?”
The voice belonged to Buck Fucker. ICE Beckman's peculiarly named right hand man; he was ICE's number one soldier back in the day when it came to matters concerning drinking, and or tomfoolery. Personally? I didn't know the guy that well, and to be honest, I don't think anybody else knew the slightly slower-than-most gentleman either. But then, that was always Beckman's plan when it came to himself and anyone else involved in the ICE age. Keep your distance. Stay under cover. Don't invite anyone inside, just stay back and enjoy the show. That thick layer of permafrost served ICE well at the beginning, before it became a jail cell for Beckman. After awhile the world lost track of him, stopped caring. And Beckman? He lost his place within the roster. He fell off the radar and lost his game; just when a Dune was gearing up to attack and take everything he had away from him. Everything that truly matters...The World Heavyweight Title.
Buck Fucker: Password!
Knowing Buck, It could be as simple as “beer”, or perhaps “free porn”. But Beckman was a student of my Grandfather, so I can assume the answer is--
Crow McMorris: Hate. The password is hate.
Buck Fucker: FUCK A TOAD ICE! He knows man! The stranger, he knows!
Crow McMorris: Just open the fucking door, numb nuts.
The door creaked open as Buck exited. His dumb, bounding frame was covered with cobwebs as he lumbered outside. A sadness etched across his rather plump, stupid face. Those rosy cheeks of his seemed shallow all of a sudden. The perpetual butt of every joke lowered his oversized head and waited for a bout of sympathy that never arrived.
Buck Fucker: Ice, he wants to speak to you alone. The others are gone. DEE, PJ. Ever since John's death he hasn't been the same. And when Dune...
Crow McMorris: Yeah, I can imagine. In fact, I'm imagining it right now.
Buck Fucker: Time for me to go “bing bong”, then?
Crow McMorris: Yup.
Buck disappears, his memory cast upon the wind as I enter. Inside, the place has a Mrs Havisham, “Great Expectations” vibe to it as cobwebs hang from every flickering light fitting and damaged heap of smashed furniture. I can smell the heavy musk of unwashed slob and Wild Turkey linger on the air. We got ourselves a full on drunk right here. Grandfather would not be pleased.
Crow McMorris: Beckman! Beckman, can you hear me?
My foot casually kicks over a bottle of whiskey as I check out the dark spaces of the hallway for signs of human life. A doorway nearby leads into a study: John's study. The centrepiece of the house and a mausoleum for a dead brother's memory. I find Beckman crouched in the corner of the room, huddled away from the moonlight. His slender frame is covered in cobwebs, it's as if he's an abandoned doll left to rot in toy box. A rogue house spider scurries across it's domain as Beckman flicks the creature away from his eyes, eyes that are haunted by a loss that he cannot shake. Echoes of Beckman's failure twitch in his bloodshot skin; the only signs of life that his stone faced expression exhibits.
Crow McMorris: Ice...it's me. Crow. You used to tell obvious jokes about me that weren't funny. Remember?
So yeah, I'm poking fun at a catatonic. So sue me. Don't worry, this sight sickens me too.
Crow McMorris: Get up, ICE! Get up and fight! Fight me now! You hear me? You're a former World Champion. FIGHT ME!
A rage came over me as I saw him lying there. This is no way a man should die. His pupils upturn as they face me, struggling to find my direction. A moment, then I hear a faint gasp of breath as life discovers Beckman's body once more. Short shallow breaths inhale and exhale from his broken frame as it tries motion again for first time in a long while; struggling to stand.The man that Chase Jackson could one day become.
Crow McMorris: Do you know who I am now? I am the Word Heavyweight Champion! Wanna hear a punchline even you couldn't draw? My last name...is McMorris. Yeah, ZMAC is my father. And I have the world heavyweight belt around my waist. Everyone pegged me for just another Steeltoe Joe; just another nearly man that had a good heart; but no prize. Now I'm the man with no heart, yet all the gold. That's sacrifice I suppose. Difficult to tell in my current state.
Ha...
HAHA....
ICE: Ha...hahaha...HAHAHA! You're...
Crow McMorris: World Champion. Yeah. I know. You want a pen and an ease to capture the hilarity?
Beckman shook his head. His frail body stumbles and leans against a bare brick wall. His eyesight turning away from a framed picture of him and John hanging over a fireplace.
ICE: He took my belt. How did you get it back? From...from him.
Crow McMorris: I didn't. This is a new journey. New challenges. I just wanted to honour you somehow. The sacrifice you made. Week in and out. You deserve more than this. You need to be remembered, Natural ICE Beckman. That effort. That commitment. Even your shitty you tube video of me. Which by the way, was shitty.
ICE: Shitty? Fuck you! I fucking broke box office records lampooning that fed! I was the face of the drunk tank! I sold out venues! I was a Vapour King! I made the belt sing! Each and every week I would set a new standard no once could reach. I entertained! I made the people laugh! What did you do? You told sad, ponderous tales of a man with no memory. Pretentious twaddle! You didn't deserve a title shot. You got the purgatory championship instead. It was just where you belonged.
Crow McMorris: Different man, different time. I evolved, while you stood still. That's how he caught you, wasn't it? You stood still. And the quicksand, it found you.
ICE: You already know the answer that that. Why ask the question? What do you want?
Crow McMorris: I want you to be the champion that you once where, not the ghost that you've become. Odin said this was Warriors gate. The hallowed grounds of champions. So be that champion, ICE. Help me. Help me make this new legacy strong. Be strong for the future. Stronger than what a Bonnie Blue can become. She lives in the shadow of her legacy, I want to exceed mine. To take my name and make it greater, not sulk behind it and bring it up every five minutes when I'm stuck for something to say.
Do it, for Buddy.
ICE: W-what?
Crow McMorris: Buddy Roman is my Grandfather. I know about the hate, how you conquered it, welded it. I've used it to, but it's different for me. Maybe it's how I died, I dunno, but there's a part of me that's safe from it. Secure. There's a hate in this belt, ICE. It runs right through it's centre. I work for a new company now, the UCI, it has a boss named Jim Thuggin. If you knew what I know about him.
ICE: What, you d-died?
Crow McMorris: He's on his way. I can sense his presence. Ice, focus. The hate. Where's it coming from?
ICE: It's...from the bell tower. If you want to discover it's heart, you'll have to journey there. You said he was on his way, you mean?
DUNE.
Crow McMorris: Prepare. You have no choice. Fight this time. Fight with all you have. Fix your legacy. Goodbye, ICE
ICE waved as the blinds to the study suddenly began to fill with searing orange light from a burning Mojave sky as Beckman straightened his body, muscle definition returning to his tired limbs as his heart began to fill with a rage and focus, the kind only a former World champion could possibly summon. While, arriving from out from the white light that now engulfed the room, stepped PJ and DEE and Buck. Friends standing by their hero. Until the very end.
The bell tolled once more as I fell. Reality returning to me. I have been yanked back into the Warehouse by an unseen force. Something dark and terrible that lived inside the belt itself called time upon my excursion. Below me the mat arrived at speed. This time my undead limbs could take the impact. It wasn't exactly a three point landing. But my bones didn't shatter either. I heaved myself up as the belt rested next to me. I would have to journey back into Warriors Gate and fix this. The belt, the UCI itself, had something evil living at it's heart. That's territory I promised Buddy Roman.
Edith's gunshot rings out again.
Fuck! Now I remember...conscience. Okay, I'll fix this for the right reasons. Promise.
Slow applause rings out as Buddy Arrives. His face is beaming.
Buddy Roman: Seven dollars ninety nine each. That's how much each and every household in Chicago had to pay to watch you dismantle that Christ Prattle fool and his idiotic sense of self importance. Seven dollars and ninety nine. This, my boy, is why capitalism never gets old.
Crow McMorris: Spencer actually went with the plan?
Buddy Roman: My dear boy, of course he did. This company needs money. We need money. People are willing to pay because they NEED to. Look at you, you need to get ready for tonight. It's your time, my Grandson. Your inauguration into a higher state of being. You're a world champion now. That means responsibility! That means you set the standard going forward! So tonight, we go forward, and party!
THE PARTY
Elmwood park's Stereo Night club had never seen anything like it. This was a UCI invasion; Gable and Adams lead the charge as the drinks flowed and all the drugs where consumed. A thick, heavy odour of weed hung in the head like a wall of joy as beneath I leaned against the bar and downed a wild Turkey on the rocks, a clink of my glass against the belt for a lost, departed foe. One who I hoped would find some peace in the end.
“Hello, Crow. I see the champion has arrived”
I turned to see Johnny Rabid; dressed as always in his dark charcoal suit and tie, that demeanour of quite menace not so easy to disguise whilst being surrounded by party goers and revellers. He seemed awkward in this environment, yet as always in control, as he ordered a cognac and attempted to smile once again.
Johnny Rabid: Nice belt, son. Thuggin's design I take it? It's a little ostentatious for my tastes. Odd sheen, but I suppose it will do.
“You say ostentatious, We American's say, functional”
Buddy had never met Rabid before tonight, but there was always animosity between them; I think that's why I find it easy to forgive Buddy for many of his faults; when it comes to Rabid, he always finds a way to make up for it.
Buddy Roman: It's a wondrous thing, isn't it? The belt. That gleam, that glint of golden light upon it's blue azure surface, I would call it, “hypnotic brilliance”; the kind that draws followers in far and wide. Such as yourself. Now, Crow here, he has to be strong for this belt. He has to protect it. Nurture it even. After all, he is the first. The one that carries it for the many that will follow. Now, Mister Rabid. Are you here to place you name in the hat?
Johnny Rabid: I'm Crow's uncle, not his competitor. As the boy's “Grandfather” you and I should be on the same team, don't you think? After all, we both only want what's best for Crow's interests. Just a little word of advice for next week, son, About this Bonnie Blue.
Buddy Roman: Ah, Bonnie Blue. What was her last claim about you, Johnny? That you were Jack the Ripper? Where you also perhaps Tutankhamen as well? Or maybe the Loch Ness Monster? I don't think you have to concern yourself with this woman any more, Mister Rabid; this is Crow McMorris standing in front of us. My Grandson. Crow has no fear of dime-store science fiction fables or the Saturday morning cartoon heroes that fight them. Bonnie Blue is a woman who has a pedigree locked away in her DNA; a three time world champion. That's impressive, but it isn't her. Its her “father's” legacy. Now, Crow; his father. His ACTUAL father. He's a multiple time Tag champion, an internet and hardcore champion. But never the world. So, what does our Crow do here upon first asking? He completes the puzzle. He honours his father by achieving what ZMAC has so far never been given the proper opportunity to achieve. And that, that makes this Grandfather very happy. Now tell me, “Johnny”. Did you ever honour Jim Thuggin' this way?
Rabid smirks
Johnny Rabid: The belt is important, I'd admit. The achievement, very...admirable. But Crow here needs to take care from those that now incircle him. Dangerous vultures like Bonnie Blue, an oddball who's quite a few pennies short of a pound if you ask me. The woman's a crazed fantasist. An individual of obvious emotional distress that has hooked up with two like minded terrorists to hound Crow with ideas of conspiracies and aliens cover ups, attempting to lure him into their world. I'm here because Crow's mother called me, worried about this Bonnie Blue and what she represents. She has in the past been responsible for personally stealing sensitive records of mine and attempting to blackmail me with them. She claims to be a “guardian” Of what exactly? Of lies? Of half truths she can peddle later to the highest bidder? She indeed has Johnny Reb's blood. But not his integrity. Be careful, boy. Behind that smile and mischievous wink is something quite rotten. Take care of this problem for me quick next Sunday at Overload? And I'll reciprocate your due diligence by taking care of yours.
Crow McMorris: And that problem would be?
Johnny Rabid: I'm growing stronger, Crow. The Circle of the Black Sun was just the start. Once I have all the pieces in place? Those that wish to hunt you down? They'll be working for me. Even this Blackwater company you've managed to annoy; they'll be in my pocket. Where they belong.
Johnny Patted the belt on my shoulder before walking away.
Johnny Rabid: As I was saying, Mister Roman. It's a nice belt. But I have other trivialities to attend to. Good day.
Crow McMorris: That's Good Day...World Champion.
The world continues to turn as Johnny walks away, and this belt of mine, keeps asking me questions.
FIN
