Post by Crow McMorris on Jul 3, 2016 15:48:09 GMT -6
NOW
My hands rest on the soft, Corinthian leather of the steering wheel. Everything smells new and distant as I begin to turn the key, that's when I hear it.
The click.
I don't complete the motion, my hand stranded now in mid turn. I take a breath I don't need and hold it for as long as I want. Eyes darting around the deserted car park as I search for possible collateral. This is the long minute, when my mind races through all the possible scenarios that could occur. Scenario one: a family exiting the arena; spying me in this Bentley Continental GT, coming over, waving, getting caught in the bomb blast. Two: a security guard. Three: a street gang...four...five...all expect the one that actually happens.
I know there's no turning back now as I hear the damn car door open and in she steps. The worst decision of her life.
“Mister McMorris, can I have a ride into town?”
Her name is Maisy Dahmer. She's not traditionally good looking, but there's a pleasantness to her early twenties, mismatched scruffiness that I like. Kind of ordinary, but sweet with the smarts. A good catch for the right kind of guy. Her long black hair is tied back with a lazy knot so that a few stray ringlets fall forward into her national health style glasses. She wears a flowery blue and white dress that drops just to the knees as a pair of fish nets and DM's take over. That faded brown leather jacket she wears, I imagine, belonged to someone else in her family, another journalist perhaps. It probably has some inspirational value. Elfish, that's how I would describe her face; pretty but not shouting it from the rooftops. Maybe she could get her teeth fixed, but to be honest, she has much more pressing concerns in her life now.
Crow McMorris: Don't close that door! Fuck! Just...please, just get out of the seat and walk away. We had a good interview, Miss Dahmer, but this isn't your ride today.
Maisy Dahmer: C'mon Mister Crow, I thought we where making progress, yah?
“Fargo” closes the door. I doubt many of us get to know when we actually make the last decision in our lives, she does though, she just made it.
Maisy Dahmer: Eye rolling, really? I'm I that bad company?
Fucks sake.
Crow McMorris: I told you before, about my life. I'm a target, for other Cartels. For forces out to stop me; dissect me for the longevity I have. Then there's that old friend of mine, Howard Black; I'm not sure what he's capable of now. I think this title I carry may have just driven him mad. I told you before, I'm a beacon for bad days. Today, Miss Dahmer, today I turned this key and discovered that today...today is a bad day. And now you're in it.
She sees my hand on the key, stuck half in motion. My eyes tell the rest of the story. This isn't my first car bomb. I recounted the first to her, only an hour ago, back in the “fan axcess” meet and greet inside the Williams arena where I'm scheduled to face Kyle Cameron this week. The fake champion with the fake dreams; I bet none of those dreams carry the reality my situation, the one I face with this belt. Why I'm the only one on this roster capable of carrying it, week in and out. The battle standard. The war time champion. That's what I am; because that's where we're at. We're at war. And this woman sitting next to me with the horrified expression? She's going to be more collateral. Another grave to fight for, unless I figure a way out of this.
Maisy Dahmer: You could have just told me, yah?
Fair point.
Crow McMorris: I was trying to keep you calm. Listening to advice sometimes helps. You may want to try that.
She reaches for her smart phone.
Maisy Dahmer: I'm calling the cops.
Good luck with that idea, this might be Minneapolis but there's a lot of long, crooked fingers across this country. Somewhere in a mayor's office in Chicago there's a man named Sanchez toasting his aids while their smug, content faces enjoy a quite moment of murder together. There plan is simple, cut me down by removing my support system; Maisy has walked into the path of a madman; I can tell by her cracking voice that she's being stonewalled. She looks at me with a haunted look, as if backed into a corner by a pack of wild dogs. My life, since I picked up this title. I guess I take after my father more than I though because you'd have to be insane to want this as much as I do.
Maisy Dahmer: They hung up.
Probably ran the plates, checked the GPS. Then turned away as there consciences ran out the door. That's America, post wav3. Survival above all; the bones beneath your feet belong to the weak, just step over them and look away. It's easy when your family gets to eat.
Crow McMorris: Give me your phone.
I use my free hand to handle her camera to check under the seat, nestled there is a small black box, a pressure sensitive device. If she leaves the seat? The bomb will explode.
Maisy Dahmer: Is it bad?
I nod.
Crow McMorris: It's not good. They've rigged the seat to react badly if you leave.
Maisy Dahmer: When you say, “react badly” you mean explode, right? And no cops are coming either. What's the plan? I mean, you must have one by now, right? You had a plan at Election day. I saw that match, Crow. I saw how you ran the show. How you picked your spots to attack, to beat the odds, you can do it here again, right? Fix this Crow, please! FUCK!
She punches the dash in frustration. From my glare she knows not to do that again.
Crow McMorris: Lets not punch the dash, yah? It is after all, an armed explosive device with a pressure sensitive circuit. Just sayin'.
Maisy sits back.
Maisy Dahmer: I don't want to die.
My hand begins to twitch as the key urges me to compete the ignition. Time feels now like it's slipping away.
THEN
The rain pattered gently upon the windshield of my brand new Bentley continental. Through a haze of bad weather I can see the last spattering of fans leave Chicago's Humboldt Park; small, huddled masses of civilization wearing my tees and caps; a nest of fans christened by the rain and the mud. They smile, unshaken by a rebellious sky, the adrenaline of the night's spectacle running through their veins as they trundle home. The park is a wide open space, the vehicle is parked under the gaze of a cross latticed structure of a hastily constructed scaffolding; a tech center has been raised, this is where the show is cut and pasted together with some online editing and broadcast live across the net via an impressive dish set up.
I've managed to outmaneuver the reporters that have gathered here. Snuck out of the way after my win and ran off with the belt. Jay wanted pics with the champ but I said later, so he just smiled and threw me the keys to this. A Bentley Continental GT. It has my uncles touch all over it. His favorite car. A “job well done” from Johnny Rabid. I'll take it, for now. Probably end up selling it a few months down the road when Buddy gets homesick for the blue Nissan. He's a creature all right, but one of habit.
Buddy Roman: I don't like it. English engineering is like Italian food. Rich, but bloated. How many miles per gallon can this do? One?
Crow McMorris: You know, you should enjoy this more. The title rests beside us because of you.
Buddy raises an eyebrow. I already know where this is heading as the rain begins to pour.
Buddy Roman: Well, I suppose you did have some hand in it. I am willing to share.
I smile as a gaggle of the usual bloggers and you tube personalties scatter for cover; most are reeling after the grilling Howard just gave them. I see him wandering around in a haze with Burnout's cybernetic arm, stumbling over his own feet with glee, spinning on the spott as the rain runs down his manic face. I can't help but think that I really need to give Kaz a call and warn him. Howard looks lost, withdrawn, and quite mad. And that arm, like a portent of the future. It scares me to think of Howard as some kind of psychotic enemy; because now I'll have to face him with all the terror I can bring.
He won't survive that.
A woman in a flowery dress motions towards him, just avoiding a wild swing from that arm. I grip the steering wheel tighter as Howard's insanity gets under my skin. But she avoids it, scowls at his direction and motions towards the reporters.
Maisy Dahmer: Where is he, where's Crow?
Reporter: Forget it. The champ doesn't do interviews.
Maisy Dahmer; Yeah? Is that so? Well that's why it's called “a job”. You have to work at it. Know where he is?
They shake their heads as I observe, she smirks, the kind that buries people with vague disdain. That's when she looks my way; eyes like steel as she sees through the tinted windows. A sly smirk as she swaggers over, but those heels. Not built for the process as she--
Trips over herself and falls head first into the mud. An echo of laughter over her shoulder as a nameless blogger with a thimble of talent puffs his chest out like a plastic god. This fucking pleb reminds me of Kyle Cameron. The Target version of Dustin Beaver. The tap out specialist. The pool boy trying to find purchase in an ocean of his betters. Betters who now lie broken at my feet, destroyed after I kicked the ladder out from under their feet and left them wondering what next. That's what happens when think you can make an impact on cruise control. The past means nothing if you can't back it up in the now.
Maisy stood up and wiped a thick face pack of mud away from her eyes, a crack in one of her lenses fires up a grimace of anger inside her as she flips off the blogger. She turns away from the GT and storms off in another direction. My anonymity reminds in tact tonight as I think about what the alternative would be like.
Buddy Roman: No.
Crow McMorris: What?
Buddy Roman: Woman have a thousand ways to spin a web, you think that display was an accident? No my boy, her timing was impeccable. Her delivery, honed and perfect. Like a tender tuna on rye; served from a Hyde Park deli. You're not just a champion now, you're a defending champion. The game has changed again. The spiders are everywhere, spinning webs. Jayson Price. Howard Black. Faces and names as yet unknown. They all like to think they can move the pieces across the board.
It had been several hours since my win over Jay Omega, Andre Holmes and the rest of the abject hungry wolves of the roster. They fought valiantly and with heart; but thankfully no real game plan, no forward thinking. In a match such as this, you need to pace yourself. Wait for that opening to arrive. Then pounce.
There's two gears you have to understand and employ to become a successful wrestler. One, learn to entertain; etch a smile upon their faces and at least you'll sell shirts and get booked. That's your bread and butter. Your solid foundation. You entertain and you'll always have a roof over your head. The second however is the difference maker. The real hard work.
In this business you can apply yourself, train hard, and hit a perfect shooting star press within six months, or lock in a half decent Crossface within eight. Pin-balling yourself across a wrestling ring like a hyperactive cannonball is a handy skill to have; but it won't win you titles. That comes with mastering psychology. Your positioning in a match; finding your rhythm, and understanding the pace of your enemies allows you to blend into the background on a battleground such as tonight's, it allows you to become invisible when you need to be. Sounds impossible when you're the champion, but it can be done, you just need to know which bumps to take and which to evade. You play dead when need be and let their arrogance take over. Wait, wait and listen; can you hear it? Their lungs gasping, exploding with panic. Eyesight marred with a downpour of burning sweat as they fight though a wall of exhaustion because they don't know when to stop and evade, it's just autopilot now. Frightened sheep in the headlights. One gear and it's fading away beneath their feet. They sink into the quicksand. Sluggish. Helpless.
Easy pickings for the Crowman.
There's never been an easier target than the one with it's back turned to you. That's your high ground, you have that? And you cannot lose. Doesn't matter how daunting the ladder is to climb. If you have psychology on your side? You have the title already. It's in your hands. Took me awhile to realize that; took a malevolent bald man who used to have my worst interests at heart. Now we're family. Grandfather and son. Champion and manager. I know how the world used to see us, this dysfunctional joke. The evil genius and his lackey. The long suffering Crow stranded with a malcontent “Grandparent”, oh how the mighty Buddy Roman has fallen!
That's psychology by the way. The moment the world turned it's back on us. The second we plunged the dagger into it's back and watched it bleed out on the steps. Et brute world. How does it feel now, Jay? How does it feel now, Andre? How does it feel to know that the fluke has become a regime? We are the normality now. The day to day. When you get up in the morning and kiss your wife, or catch the glowing rays of a sunrise, or taste that first bitter bourbon of the day to mask the pain. You do so, in a world where I am Champion. No fluke. No flash in the pan. Just natural selection shuffling the cards. The deck has been dealt. Deal with it.
It feels good to dream up some hubris as I grip that steering wheel. Buddy is wondering why I haven't just turned the key and driven this thing away. I guess I like staring at this reporter woman. A bit of voyeurism never hurt. Besides, I like her legs.
THE BUDDY SYSTEM
06/30/16: The cruelest of lies
The bends they call it, when air pressure changes at a rate the human body can't cope with; leading to hemorrhaging and death. The bends. It can be both figurative and literal. In your case, Kyle “Champion” Cameron, it is both, and it is lethal. Kyle Cameron, where you stand in the grand scheme of things is the bottom floor, you're a bell hop that dreams of the penthouse. A spoke that believes himself to be the wheel. The brave little toaster that can't pop a tart. This week you begin a fast slide into extinction from a very great height, standing next to my Grandson. The man that will push your lightweight frame from the podium and send you on your way home. What kind of home I can only imagine. Possible with a crack addicted mother wiggling a needle out of her arm. Perhaps a bible thumping father that likes to stare as you bath. It must have been the cruellest of existences that forced you to run so far and fast away from reality. I beat you broke a heel on your red shoe as you ran, wondering when the twister was going to arrive to cart you away.
UCI is no land of OZ; Kyle. No yellow brick road is going to guide you to the promise land. There's no Scarecrow here. He died. He dies and was reborn a champion. Is tat what you want my son? Are you willing to die to gain the perspective you need to realize what it take to be a champion? I'm not convinced that death would enlighten you. The lights that flicker in those cross eyes of yours seem incapable of understanding orders, except maybe a big mac and fries.
Right now I imagine that nose of yours is bleeding, the blood flowing as the pressure begins to stifle; weighing down on those cocktail stick arms of yours until they snap. Forcing your lungs to collapse as the enormity of your task begins to dawn, hammering down upon a talent, ill prepared for the onslaught to come. Or maybe your anesthetized to the climb by your lack of higher intelligence. Wrapped in bubble wrap by your idiocy. I've watched each of your matches this week, and one common thread becomes glaringly apparent. You have no spacial awareness. It's the kind of schoolboy error that comes when someone trains to be a wrestler and only re-watches the highlight reels of stars you wish to emulate. That's you. You want the hits and the thumbs up from that friends list made up of Nigerian get rich quick schemes and click bait pseudonyms, but you don't care about the moments in between. The hours of understanding that makes a man snap under pressure, how to render a limb useless, how to apply nerve damage and make it stick. Everything is throwaway with you, Kyle. Everything is transitory. Disposable. Your career lacks weight; it's anorexic. A Kyle Cameron-Carpenter, throwing up it's last meal because it knows, it absolutely knows, this is it's LAST MEAL.
Let's just dispense with the theatrics for a moment and call it like the world sees it...you're fucked. You're wrapped in chains and thrown into the Missouri. And as you sink you'll see your enemies wave you down. Erin Fausse, smiling as your lungs fill with water, the woman that outplayed you at every turn. That made you look like a 4-chan fool on twitter. Destroying you with some simple well placed jibes that germinated the wraith of god within you. Blossoming as your faith within yourself dissipates. She's nothing new, but compared to a diminutive, small man such as yourself, she's a giant, standing in a paddling pool as your drown in the shallow end.
I've seen Lithuanian sex slaves hooked on crocodile fucked less than you. That's not an exaggeration, but a scene from my dark, illustrious past. You see a lot of twisted scenes in this business. A lot of days others would like to forget. I cherish them. All the hate and the suffering the world pulls out of it's bottomless bag of tricks. We all need inspiration, Kyle. How else can I impart the teachings of the khmer rouge upon an impressionable grandson willing to learn. So eager to please is my Crow.
This week isn't the golden opportunity you first imagined, is it? This is a cruel twist of fate. The ringmaster has kicked the clown into the lions enclosure and shut the cage door. They're betting on your life, Kyle. They're taking bets on how long you'll live, five minutes? Ten? The odds are as slim as your talent, and getting shallower by the second. You're a one note fool, a Dustin Beaver with PMS; angry for it's own sake. And that's a shame, because I like the dreamer; I like the gumption. You got chutzpah kid, too bad none of that confidence could snag a slither of talent along the way. None of that aggression ever saw a side glance from technical skill. All that fire, but without grace.
The cruellest of jokes to play upon a dreamer is the sharp stab of truth. To blind a sightless man. That's what you are, sightless. Hopeless. A sub standard Dustin Beaver who's lost to that talent again and again because an imitation cannot overcome the original. “Champion”, champion of second place in a two horse match. Officially the best loss to Beaver in a Television Championship match in UCI history. You should be so proud.
In reality, there is no such thing as a Kyle “Champion” Cameron. Just the echo of a small, frightened child , wandering in the dark. Wondering where his heart is. Where his soul is. Look under a side twelve boot this Sunday in Williams Park. There you'll find the last gasp of fight you had. But please, don't ask my Crow for his trophy back. You belong to him now. Now and forever.
We like cruel jokes. This Sunday, be ours. You'll be in good company.
NOW
I check the time, in an hour or two this world will be a crowded river of humanity. Families will arrive, humanity in motion. Bodies a second away from fire and death. I tired to punch my way out of the roof, but it's steel. I tried to get a fire engine to arrive, perhaps if we could fill the vehicle with water it would dampen the electrics and buy us the time to escape. But again, no one answered the call. Maisy had fire; had hope. But as each plan evaporated so did that fire. In it's place came resolution. A call to her mother who was out at work. A email to a brother serving overseas. We talked about what ifs about all the adventures she never had. I lied a couple of times, tried reassure her that her work would live on. That I would make sure that interview would see print. She wanted to be a real journalist. But this day, this bad day that was robbed from her by the same bastards that come after me week after week. I used to think that I was doing enough to turn the tide, but as the ky in my hand begins to turn, I know that's not the truth. I need to do more. To step up. To face my enemies and vanquish them. Before all that I've built becomes a kingdom for a lonely dead man. As isolated and lost as Kyle “Champion” Cameron. Walking to the ring., knowing that the end is here and it is real.
Maisy Dahmer: Will, will it hurt?
It's too late in the game to lie, I wish to God I could.
Crow McMorris: I don't remember any more. Been awhile since I felt pain. There's fire. Heat. Then blackness. I don't know what's next. I don't think I ever got there. I don't think it was never meant for me. I'm sorry. Are you ready?
Maisy Dahmer: No, does it matter?
I shake my head.
Maisy Dahmer: Fuck it then.
Crow McMorris: Close your eyes.
She complies as tears run down her cheek. I wrap a free arm around her neck and snap it. I expected her to struggle but she held her nerve. There's a rhythmic thump for a few moments as her left leg spasms. For some reason I still feel the need to wait until it de down. Even though she's been dead for minutes now.
I kiss her cheek. Then turn the key.
A few hours later. I wrap my hands with tape. Warm up. Listen to Buddy speak.
Then begin to fight again.
FIN.
My hands rest on the soft, Corinthian leather of the steering wheel. Everything smells new and distant as I begin to turn the key, that's when I hear it.
The click.
I don't complete the motion, my hand stranded now in mid turn. I take a breath I don't need and hold it for as long as I want. Eyes darting around the deserted car park as I search for possible collateral. This is the long minute, when my mind races through all the possible scenarios that could occur. Scenario one: a family exiting the arena; spying me in this Bentley Continental GT, coming over, waving, getting caught in the bomb blast. Two: a security guard. Three: a street gang...four...five...all expect the one that actually happens.
I know there's no turning back now as I hear the damn car door open and in she steps. The worst decision of her life.
“Mister McMorris, can I have a ride into town?”
Her name is Maisy Dahmer. She's not traditionally good looking, but there's a pleasantness to her early twenties, mismatched scruffiness that I like. Kind of ordinary, but sweet with the smarts. A good catch for the right kind of guy. Her long black hair is tied back with a lazy knot so that a few stray ringlets fall forward into her national health style glasses. She wears a flowery blue and white dress that drops just to the knees as a pair of fish nets and DM's take over. That faded brown leather jacket she wears, I imagine, belonged to someone else in her family, another journalist perhaps. It probably has some inspirational value. Elfish, that's how I would describe her face; pretty but not shouting it from the rooftops. Maybe she could get her teeth fixed, but to be honest, she has much more pressing concerns in her life now.
Crow McMorris: Don't close that door! Fuck! Just...please, just get out of the seat and walk away. We had a good interview, Miss Dahmer, but this isn't your ride today.
Maisy Dahmer: C'mon Mister Crow, I thought we where making progress, yah?
“Fargo” closes the door. I doubt many of us get to know when we actually make the last decision in our lives, she does though, she just made it.
Maisy Dahmer: Eye rolling, really? I'm I that bad company?
Fucks sake.
Crow McMorris: I told you before, about my life. I'm a target, for other Cartels. For forces out to stop me; dissect me for the longevity I have. Then there's that old friend of mine, Howard Black; I'm not sure what he's capable of now. I think this title I carry may have just driven him mad. I told you before, I'm a beacon for bad days. Today, Miss Dahmer, today I turned this key and discovered that today...today is a bad day. And now you're in it.
She sees my hand on the key, stuck half in motion. My eyes tell the rest of the story. This isn't my first car bomb. I recounted the first to her, only an hour ago, back in the “fan axcess” meet and greet inside the Williams arena where I'm scheduled to face Kyle Cameron this week. The fake champion with the fake dreams; I bet none of those dreams carry the reality my situation, the one I face with this belt. Why I'm the only one on this roster capable of carrying it, week in and out. The battle standard. The war time champion. That's what I am; because that's where we're at. We're at war. And this woman sitting next to me with the horrified expression? She's going to be more collateral. Another grave to fight for, unless I figure a way out of this.
Maisy Dahmer: You could have just told me, yah?
Fair point.
Crow McMorris: I was trying to keep you calm. Listening to advice sometimes helps. You may want to try that.
She reaches for her smart phone.
Maisy Dahmer: I'm calling the cops.
Good luck with that idea, this might be Minneapolis but there's a lot of long, crooked fingers across this country. Somewhere in a mayor's office in Chicago there's a man named Sanchez toasting his aids while their smug, content faces enjoy a quite moment of murder together. There plan is simple, cut me down by removing my support system; Maisy has walked into the path of a madman; I can tell by her cracking voice that she's being stonewalled. She looks at me with a haunted look, as if backed into a corner by a pack of wild dogs. My life, since I picked up this title. I guess I take after my father more than I though because you'd have to be insane to want this as much as I do.
Maisy Dahmer: They hung up.
Probably ran the plates, checked the GPS. Then turned away as there consciences ran out the door. That's America, post wav3. Survival above all; the bones beneath your feet belong to the weak, just step over them and look away. It's easy when your family gets to eat.
Crow McMorris: Give me your phone.
I use my free hand to handle her camera to check under the seat, nestled there is a small black box, a pressure sensitive device. If she leaves the seat? The bomb will explode.
Maisy Dahmer: Is it bad?
I nod.
Crow McMorris: It's not good. They've rigged the seat to react badly if you leave.
Maisy Dahmer: When you say, “react badly” you mean explode, right? And no cops are coming either. What's the plan? I mean, you must have one by now, right? You had a plan at Election day. I saw that match, Crow. I saw how you ran the show. How you picked your spots to attack, to beat the odds, you can do it here again, right? Fix this Crow, please! FUCK!
She punches the dash in frustration. From my glare she knows not to do that again.
Crow McMorris: Lets not punch the dash, yah? It is after all, an armed explosive device with a pressure sensitive circuit. Just sayin'.
Maisy sits back.
Maisy Dahmer: I don't want to die.
My hand begins to twitch as the key urges me to compete the ignition. Time feels now like it's slipping away.
THEN
The rain pattered gently upon the windshield of my brand new Bentley continental. Through a haze of bad weather I can see the last spattering of fans leave Chicago's Humboldt Park; small, huddled masses of civilization wearing my tees and caps; a nest of fans christened by the rain and the mud. They smile, unshaken by a rebellious sky, the adrenaline of the night's spectacle running through their veins as they trundle home. The park is a wide open space, the vehicle is parked under the gaze of a cross latticed structure of a hastily constructed scaffolding; a tech center has been raised, this is where the show is cut and pasted together with some online editing and broadcast live across the net via an impressive dish set up.
I've managed to outmaneuver the reporters that have gathered here. Snuck out of the way after my win and ran off with the belt. Jay wanted pics with the champ but I said later, so he just smiled and threw me the keys to this. A Bentley Continental GT. It has my uncles touch all over it. His favorite car. A “job well done” from Johnny Rabid. I'll take it, for now. Probably end up selling it a few months down the road when Buddy gets homesick for the blue Nissan. He's a creature all right, but one of habit.
Buddy Roman: I don't like it. English engineering is like Italian food. Rich, but bloated. How many miles per gallon can this do? One?
Crow McMorris: You know, you should enjoy this more. The title rests beside us because of you.
Buddy raises an eyebrow. I already know where this is heading as the rain begins to pour.
Buddy Roman: Well, I suppose you did have some hand in it. I am willing to share.
I smile as a gaggle of the usual bloggers and you tube personalties scatter for cover; most are reeling after the grilling Howard just gave them. I see him wandering around in a haze with Burnout's cybernetic arm, stumbling over his own feet with glee, spinning on the spott as the rain runs down his manic face. I can't help but think that I really need to give Kaz a call and warn him. Howard looks lost, withdrawn, and quite mad. And that arm, like a portent of the future. It scares me to think of Howard as some kind of psychotic enemy; because now I'll have to face him with all the terror I can bring.
He won't survive that.
A woman in a flowery dress motions towards him, just avoiding a wild swing from that arm. I grip the steering wheel tighter as Howard's insanity gets under my skin. But she avoids it, scowls at his direction and motions towards the reporters.
Maisy Dahmer: Where is he, where's Crow?
Reporter: Forget it. The champ doesn't do interviews.
Maisy Dahmer; Yeah? Is that so? Well that's why it's called “a job”. You have to work at it. Know where he is?
They shake their heads as I observe, she smirks, the kind that buries people with vague disdain. That's when she looks my way; eyes like steel as she sees through the tinted windows. A sly smirk as she swaggers over, but those heels. Not built for the process as she--
Trips over herself and falls head first into the mud. An echo of laughter over her shoulder as a nameless blogger with a thimble of talent puffs his chest out like a plastic god. This fucking pleb reminds me of Kyle Cameron. The Target version of Dustin Beaver. The tap out specialist. The pool boy trying to find purchase in an ocean of his betters. Betters who now lie broken at my feet, destroyed after I kicked the ladder out from under their feet and left them wondering what next. That's what happens when think you can make an impact on cruise control. The past means nothing if you can't back it up in the now.
Maisy stood up and wiped a thick face pack of mud away from her eyes, a crack in one of her lenses fires up a grimace of anger inside her as she flips off the blogger. She turns away from the GT and storms off in another direction. My anonymity reminds in tact tonight as I think about what the alternative would be like.
Buddy Roman: No.
Crow McMorris: What?
Buddy Roman: Woman have a thousand ways to spin a web, you think that display was an accident? No my boy, her timing was impeccable. Her delivery, honed and perfect. Like a tender tuna on rye; served from a Hyde Park deli. You're not just a champion now, you're a defending champion. The game has changed again. The spiders are everywhere, spinning webs. Jayson Price. Howard Black. Faces and names as yet unknown. They all like to think they can move the pieces across the board.
It had been several hours since my win over Jay Omega, Andre Holmes and the rest of the abject hungry wolves of the roster. They fought valiantly and with heart; but thankfully no real game plan, no forward thinking. In a match such as this, you need to pace yourself. Wait for that opening to arrive. Then pounce.
There's two gears you have to understand and employ to become a successful wrestler. One, learn to entertain; etch a smile upon their faces and at least you'll sell shirts and get booked. That's your bread and butter. Your solid foundation. You entertain and you'll always have a roof over your head. The second however is the difference maker. The real hard work.
In this business you can apply yourself, train hard, and hit a perfect shooting star press within six months, or lock in a half decent Crossface within eight. Pin-balling yourself across a wrestling ring like a hyperactive cannonball is a handy skill to have; but it won't win you titles. That comes with mastering psychology. Your positioning in a match; finding your rhythm, and understanding the pace of your enemies allows you to blend into the background on a battleground such as tonight's, it allows you to become invisible when you need to be. Sounds impossible when you're the champion, but it can be done, you just need to know which bumps to take and which to evade. You play dead when need be and let their arrogance take over. Wait, wait and listen; can you hear it? Their lungs gasping, exploding with panic. Eyesight marred with a downpour of burning sweat as they fight though a wall of exhaustion because they don't know when to stop and evade, it's just autopilot now. Frightened sheep in the headlights. One gear and it's fading away beneath their feet. They sink into the quicksand. Sluggish. Helpless.
Easy pickings for the Crowman.
There's never been an easier target than the one with it's back turned to you. That's your high ground, you have that? And you cannot lose. Doesn't matter how daunting the ladder is to climb. If you have psychology on your side? You have the title already. It's in your hands. Took me awhile to realize that; took a malevolent bald man who used to have my worst interests at heart. Now we're family. Grandfather and son. Champion and manager. I know how the world used to see us, this dysfunctional joke. The evil genius and his lackey. The long suffering Crow stranded with a malcontent “Grandparent”, oh how the mighty Buddy Roman has fallen!
That's psychology by the way. The moment the world turned it's back on us. The second we plunged the dagger into it's back and watched it bleed out on the steps. Et brute world. How does it feel now, Jay? How does it feel now, Andre? How does it feel to know that the fluke has become a regime? We are the normality now. The day to day. When you get up in the morning and kiss your wife, or catch the glowing rays of a sunrise, or taste that first bitter bourbon of the day to mask the pain. You do so, in a world where I am Champion. No fluke. No flash in the pan. Just natural selection shuffling the cards. The deck has been dealt. Deal with it.
It feels good to dream up some hubris as I grip that steering wheel. Buddy is wondering why I haven't just turned the key and driven this thing away. I guess I like staring at this reporter woman. A bit of voyeurism never hurt. Besides, I like her legs.
THE BUDDY SYSTEM
06/30/16: The cruelest of lies
The bends they call it, when air pressure changes at a rate the human body can't cope with; leading to hemorrhaging and death. The bends. It can be both figurative and literal. In your case, Kyle “Champion” Cameron, it is both, and it is lethal. Kyle Cameron, where you stand in the grand scheme of things is the bottom floor, you're a bell hop that dreams of the penthouse. A spoke that believes himself to be the wheel. The brave little toaster that can't pop a tart. This week you begin a fast slide into extinction from a very great height, standing next to my Grandson. The man that will push your lightweight frame from the podium and send you on your way home. What kind of home I can only imagine. Possible with a crack addicted mother wiggling a needle out of her arm. Perhaps a bible thumping father that likes to stare as you bath. It must have been the cruellest of existences that forced you to run so far and fast away from reality. I beat you broke a heel on your red shoe as you ran, wondering when the twister was going to arrive to cart you away.
UCI is no land of OZ; Kyle. No yellow brick road is going to guide you to the promise land. There's no Scarecrow here. He died. He dies and was reborn a champion. Is tat what you want my son? Are you willing to die to gain the perspective you need to realize what it take to be a champion? I'm not convinced that death would enlighten you. The lights that flicker in those cross eyes of yours seem incapable of understanding orders, except maybe a big mac and fries.
Right now I imagine that nose of yours is bleeding, the blood flowing as the pressure begins to stifle; weighing down on those cocktail stick arms of yours until they snap. Forcing your lungs to collapse as the enormity of your task begins to dawn, hammering down upon a talent, ill prepared for the onslaught to come. Or maybe your anesthetized to the climb by your lack of higher intelligence. Wrapped in bubble wrap by your idiocy. I've watched each of your matches this week, and one common thread becomes glaringly apparent. You have no spacial awareness. It's the kind of schoolboy error that comes when someone trains to be a wrestler and only re-watches the highlight reels of stars you wish to emulate. That's you. You want the hits and the thumbs up from that friends list made up of Nigerian get rich quick schemes and click bait pseudonyms, but you don't care about the moments in between. The hours of understanding that makes a man snap under pressure, how to render a limb useless, how to apply nerve damage and make it stick. Everything is throwaway with you, Kyle. Everything is transitory. Disposable. Your career lacks weight; it's anorexic. A Kyle Cameron-Carpenter, throwing up it's last meal because it knows, it absolutely knows, this is it's LAST MEAL.
Let's just dispense with the theatrics for a moment and call it like the world sees it...you're fucked. You're wrapped in chains and thrown into the Missouri. And as you sink you'll see your enemies wave you down. Erin Fausse, smiling as your lungs fill with water, the woman that outplayed you at every turn. That made you look like a 4-chan fool on twitter. Destroying you with some simple well placed jibes that germinated the wraith of god within you. Blossoming as your faith within yourself dissipates. She's nothing new, but compared to a diminutive, small man such as yourself, she's a giant, standing in a paddling pool as your drown in the shallow end.
I've seen Lithuanian sex slaves hooked on crocodile fucked less than you. That's not an exaggeration, but a scene from my dark, illustrious past. You see a lot of twisted scenes in this business. A lot of days others would like to forget. I cherish them. All the hate and the suffering the world pulls out of it's bottomless bag of tricks. We all need inspiration, Kyle. How else can I impart the teachings of the khmer rouge upon an impressionable grandson willing to learn. So eager to please is my Crow.
This week isn't the golden opportunity you first imagined, is it? This is a cruel twist of fate. The ringmaster has kicked the clown into the lions enclosure and shut the cage door. They're betting on your life, Kyle. They're taking bets on how long you'll live, five minutes? Ten? The odds are as slim as your talent, and getting shallower by the second. You're a one note fool, a Dustin Beaver with PMS; angry for it's own sake. And that's a shame, because I like the dreamer; I like the gumption. You got chutzpah kid, too bad none of that confidence could snag a slither of talent along the way. None of that aggression ever saw a side glance from technical skill. All that fire, but without grace.
The cruellest of jokes to play upon a dreamer is the sharp stab of truth. To blind a sightless man. That's what you are, sightless. Hopeless. A sub standard Dustin Beaver who's lost to that talent again and again because an imitation cannot overcome the original. “Champion”, champion of second place in a two horse match. Officially the best loss to Beaver in a Television Championship match in UCI history. You should be so proud.
In reality, there is no such thing as a Kyle “Champion” Cameron. Just the echo of a small, frightened child , wandering in the dark. Wondering where his heart is. Where his soul is. Look under a side twelve boot this Sunday in Williams Park. There you'll find the last gasp of fight you had. But please, don't ask my Crow for his trophy back. You belong to him now. Now and forever.
We like cruel jokes. This Sunday, be ours. You'll be in good company.
NOW
I check the time, in an hour or two this world will be a crowded river of humanity. Families will arrive, humanity in motion. Bodies a second away from fire and death. I tired to punch my way out of the roof, but it's steel. I tried to get a fire engine to arrive, perhaps if we could fill the vehicle with water it would dampen the electrics and buy us the time to escape. But again, no one answered the call. Maisy had fire; had hope. But as each plan evaporated so did that fire. In it's place came resolution. A call to her mother who was out at work. A email to a brother serving overseas. We talked about what ifs about all the adventures she never had. I lied a couple of times, tried reassure her that her work would live on. That I would make sure that interview would see print. She wanted to be a real journalist. But this day, this bad day that was robbed from her by the same bastards that come after me week after week. I used to think that I was doing enough to turn the tide, but as the ky in my hand begins to turn, I know that's not the truth. I need to do more. To step up. To face my enemies and vanquish them. Before all that I've built becomes a kingdom for a lonely dead man. As isolated and lost as Kyle “Champion” Cameron. Walking to the ring., knowing that the end is here and it is real.
Maisy Dahmer: Will, will it hurt?
It's too late in the game to lie, I wish to God I could.
Crow McMorris: I don't remember any more. Been awhile since I felt pain. There's fire. Heat. Then blackness. I don't know what's next. I don't think I ever got there. I don't think it was never meant for me. I'm sorry. Are you ready?
Maisy Dahmer: No, does it matter?
I shake my head.
Maisy Dahmer: Fuck it then.
Crow McMorris: Close your eyes.
She complies as tears run down her cheek. I wrap a free arm around her neck and snap it. I expected her to struggle but she held her nerve. There's a rhythmic thump for a few moments as her left leg spasms. For some reason I still feel the need to wait until it de down. Even though she's been dead for minutes now.
I kiss her cheek. Then turn the key.
A few hours later. I wrap my hands with tape. Warm up. Listen to Buddy speak.
Then begin to fight again.
FIN.
