Post by Deleted on Jul 6, 2016 15:01:08 GMT -6
6/20/16
You have reached the voice mailbox of (…Howard Black…) to leave a message, record at the tone.
Billy: “What’s up, man? It’s Billy….Howie? You there? What, John? This is a voicemail and not really him? Oh well shitfire, sorry about that Howie. I heard your voice and thought that was you. Look man, there’s something that’s bothering me. I was watching the UTI on the tele—what, John? UCI? What’s a UTI then? A what? Well shit, Howie, my bad, guess your peter is doing ok, but when I saw you on the old boob tube the other day I was getting a little worri----“
Beeeeeep
Lincoln, NE
7/6/16
After finishing off the last of his tall can of Pabst Blue Ribbon, Howard crushed the can and slid it to the mats which lined the far side of the bar. For a moment, the entire scene almost felt oddly familiar – after the few months of retirement, Howard never imagined he’d once more find himself fresh off a flight and sitting at a bar in Lincoln, waiting for another flight to somewhere that wasn’t here. Even when he’d signed the contract for UCI, he had envisioned himself wandering between unfamiliar Chicago dives, smoking cigarettes in the dark corners and remaining undisturbed in his thoughts before fighting on Sunday. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he pushed himself up, turning to the door, and exiting the bar for the night; how bittersweet the nostalgia was.
It would be a brisk walk from Bodega’s on 14th and O Street back to his house in the North Bottoms; quick cut through UNL campus, cross the train tracks, and you were there within half an hour. On a late night during the summer, it would be a walk where Howard could be relatively undisturbed – no fresh young faces running around to make him feel like the old timer trying to recapture his youth and no tours of eager families wondering where to send their children. The emptiness of the campus gave Howard a sense of freedom and privacy, the same sort he’d once felt as a student; it was his secret country. As he stepped through the gate beside the Student Union and took his first few paces onto campus, he let out a deep breath of relief.
From the plaza outside the Student Union, he crossed the walkway which took him under the arch of Love Library. Inside the brick and glass building, the lights still glowed – the newly opened Dunkin Donuts was twenty-four hours to accommodate those late-night jam sessions. A few students sat at tables, pouring over books, but the building was generally deserted; a natural product of the summer. From the edge of the light, Howard slowly circled the building, his eyes jumping from table-to-table for a familiar place; it was a corner tucked behind the Political Science library where he and Sarah would hole up and crunch through pages of math, readings, or any papers they may’ve been assigned. After circling the building once, Howard’s mind began turning, his lips curling into a frown as his brow furrowed in thought.
Had he missed it? Surely he couldn’t have forgotten where it was? Closing his eyes, his memories wandered to the feeling of a hot mug of coffee between his hands, his eyes cast out on a fresh coat of snow covering the ground. That hideous red I-beam sculpture stared back at him, and a rabbit hopped from beneath a spruce. Sarah pointed it out, narrating the movements of the rodent as she rested her chin on his shoulder, arms wrapped around him. With the image fresh on hand, Howard re-opened his eyes and crossed to the west side of the building. Standing beside that hideous sculpture, Howard looked back at the windows of the library, immediately understanding why he missed the spot on his circling of the building: the political science library had been removed during renovation, and all of the old pine desks had been replaced with white and primary colored plastic.
Turning from the building, he crossed the grass towards the bench out front of the College of Business Administration, an ornate brick and marble building fashioned with neoclassical flair, lighting a cigarette as he stared up at it. It was handsome; the interior offered an admirable blend of old (such as the elegant wooden grand stairs) with new (such as the interactive touch screen announcement boards which flanked the stairwells). From the bench, Howard could see the towering cranes of the construction site of the new College of Business Administration building. The ground had been broken on the $84 million dollar project a summer ago, and the controversy surrounding the state-of-the-art cement and metal facility had been making the back pages of the papers since then. Of course, the rest of the faculty was livid with the preferential treatment of the Business College over the decaying infrastructure of the College of English or the lack of equipment for the College of Chemistry. The old CBA building, the College of Business argued, was over one hundred years old; they deserved a change of scenery. The administration would never fuck with a golden goose like Business or football; they got their way. Meanwhile, the rest of the university looked at the old building hungrily.
Howard had never much trusted anyone majoring in Business – it seemed contrary to the reasons he’d always been taught why one goes to college. Of course, everyone seeks a college degree to get a better job, but hadn’t he also been told that college was meant for one to enrich themselves? When had it gone from being a place of academic exploration to a process of certification for one to work in a cubicle? As the world grew older, society had found something newer, he supposed. Of course, as he dropped his cigarette and crushed it beneath the heel of his boot, he wondered if “new” always indicated positive progress.
From the College of Business Administration, Howard took a right, passed Hamilton Hall, and continued past Avery Hall until he stood in the circle before the towering façade of Memorial Stadium, the glowing red Nebraska Husker “N”s staring down at him. He paused, taking a moment to stare at the bronze Husker Legacy statue. The statue came from a photograph taken during a game in 1995, six defensive players tackling a lone Kansas State player. That was a good game – Nebraska had shut Kansas State down 42-6, only allowing 19 more points when reserve players were substituted. As Kansas had looked on the brink of reemergence, Nebraska’s starters took the field again to score another touchdown, ending the game at 49-25.
That was what domination looked like. That year had ended with Nebraska walking into the Fiesta Bowl, beating Florida to the tune of 62-24, and capturing the national championships. Perhaps those days had left the school – the last season under new Head Coach Mike Riley was embarrassing and frustrating – but that pedigree and legacy of success lived on in the minds of every resident of this state. Hadn’t it been why he’d chosen to walk-on during his freshman year? Hadn’t it been what drove him to spend three years warming a bench, eyes closed and praying for the moment when he could take the field and prove his worth?
“You’re 5’8”, Black. You don’t work in our scheme.”
Those words still haunted him as he stood before Memorial Stadium, gazing up at the towering American flags and marble walls. He’d fought those words every day for the chance to get his name and number up in that stadium – to get that statue of himself placed out front. He’d always known what the true meaning of Coach Pelini’s words had been: “We don’t think you’re good enough.” He’d fought the devil every day until Sarah told him she was pregnant; that was when he finally had to throw in the towel.
Howard rarely went to Husker games these days; perhaps he was a bad Nebraskan. That sense of isolation – of feeling like he should be on the field instead of amongst the crowd, cheering on the team – had never sat well with him. It was what had driven him to wrestling and to work in AWF. That drive – the drive to be great – was his crack. For a time, family and friendship had been able to replace it. But when everything was reduced to ash? When he had nothing left? Nothing could keep him from returning. And that’s why he’d signed the UCI contract.
Howard turned from Memorial Stadium, his back now to the statue he’d never be a part of and the names on the brick walkway out front which would never include his. It was a short stroll down the looping sidewalk which curled around back, and then he was at the bridge which spanned over the train tracks and connected back to the North Bottoms. He walked in silence, passing the Casey’s General Store that didn’t sell alcohol and the Mexican restaurant across the street where he used to bring Joey on hot summer days to get ice cream. Cutting through the parking lot behind the old fire station (now a Masonic Lodge), he found himself back on Court Street. A light was on upstairs – she was still awake. After unlocking the front door, Howard crossed directly through the house to the basement stairs, making his way down to the make shift studio.
After arranging his equipment and camera, he sat down on the cheap futon couch, staring at the camera. He thought of that spot in Love Library and how some things will be gone and never come back. He thought of the old CBA building and its replacement, wondering if something “new” is always better than something “old”. He thought about Memorial Stadium and that drive and fire in him to reach a height he never achieved. Finally, he thought of Andre Holmes, the Relentless One; his opponent this week and another step between himself and Crow. He stood up, walking to the camera and pressing the record button, and then he sat down and pulled out his phone.
Promotional Video Sent to UCI Headquarters
The video opened once more to a familiar location: the basement of the Black Family house. Howard kept his usual pose, hunched forward with his forearms resting on his knees. His hands were folded before him, a burning cigarette clenched between the index and middle finger of his right hand. The hood of his sweatshirt was pulled up, hanging down on his face, and the sweatshirt was unzipped to reveal a plain white cotton t-shirt. His crucifix necklace dangled around his neck.
He smiled politely as he raised the cigarette to his lips, taking a slow drag and exhaling quickly to begin speaking. As he did so, he shifted back to lay against the couch, his left arm remaining across his lap as his right arm rested atop the back.
Howard Black: It’s good to see you again, Andre. The last time we squared off, we both had a raw deal – your tag partner abandoned you, and my partner was Occulo, which is probably worse. You took lemons and made lemonade by rolling Occulo up for the win, and while you may take that as a mark in the win column, you’ve yet to face me one-on-one. Maybe you think that the deck was stacked against you last time, as a two-on-one match should look like unfair odds on paper. Then again, the partner I was dragging along was the epitome of dead weight. Fucking worthless. I’m not surprised you snuck one past him, and I’m even more surprised I managed to beat Dune in spite of him. But this time, there are no excuses – it’s just you and me. And now we’ll have to see how we truly stack up against one another.
Ever since I left WCF, I had to listen to people talk to me about who was “the new Howard Black”. David Sanchez, you – there were more that I never bothered to remember and probably never did much. I’m going to be frank: it pissed me off. There’s no “new Howard Black”; there never will be. There’s only one Howard Black, and that’s me. When you put my character against any of the guys hyped to “take up my mantle” – including yourself – you’ll see that not one of them came close to matching any of the career highs I had. Had I not been injured? Had I not decided to retire? There wouldn’t have been a #BeachKrew problem. There wouldn’t be a Jay Omega WAR win or a Jayson Price title reign. I’d have had the whole company in a Kimura Lock, watching as every single one of you tapped out like dominos falling to the ground. That’s not hyperbole – that’s truth. I came back from injury and immediately captured the Trios Titles. Even with a short reign, I had one of the most memorable conquests of the Television Title, a belt that you were never able to capture successfully. Had I strolled in and taken the WCF World Heavyweight Championship, I’d have probably given Joey Flash a run for his money as “fastest grand slam champion.” I got to where I am because I never took days off and never saw a challenger as too big for me. That’s why I beat Bates while you lost to Slane. This is why you’ll never be the “new Howard Black.”
This is also why the outcome of this match is crystal clear: I’ll be walking out the victor. You can talk the talk and strike the pose all you want, but nobody can do it like me. That’s why I’m the Best Who Never Was, soon to become the Best There Ever Was following #Beachmania. Just like I told Shadowlove last week, everything I touch becomes important. That’s why you’re in the main event despite having no reason being there: it’s against me. I’m the marquee player. I’m the one who people are buying tickets to boo and watch destroy others. That’s why I’ll leave Price with no choice but to put me up for the UCI Championship despite just coming back and only being around for a month – because there’s no one who can do it better. Even my detractors will tell you I’m the toughest son of a bitch in this company, and you’d better believe Crow is praying to “Jam Willy” that all the guys like you, lined up to soften me up, can offer some resistance. They can’t. You can’t. And you won’t. Because we’re on completely different levels.
You had your chance at the top of the pyramid, and you blew it. In that match with Omega, Chase Jackson, and Crow you demonstrated that you don’t belong in the upper card. It’s not just that I have to beat you to stake my name – I absolutely will. Unlike you, I do belong up there. Unlike you, I’ve never wasted an opportunity or not been able to cut it. Every title shot I’ve ever gotten has ended in me being successful. I’ve proven time and time again that I can take anyone thrown at me. You, on the other hand, have squandered almost every opportunity that mattered. For all of your talk about being “Relentless”, you seem to relent every other week. A champion does not lose to Alex Richards. A champion doesn’t let Stuart Slane steal the spotlight during a moment he earned. This is why you can’t beat me. And this is why you have no business being compared to me.
You were a double champion in WCF during a time when talent was at an absolutely abysmal low. Before you try to argue that statement, I’d like to remind you that Katherine Phoenix was holding the Hardcore Title when you won it. Katherine. Fucking. Phoenix. Is that a joke? Frankly, if you’d have lost that match, you’d have been laughed out of Pennsylvania. You had no choice but to win, and you never faced stiff competition once you’d achieved it. Where was Jay Omega? Where was Torture? Where was Alex Richards or Mark Mayhem or any of the other men who’d forged the prestige of that belt you had around your waist? Nowhere to be found; this is why you were able to succeed.
Come to think of it, Katherine Phoenix is really the only thing you and I have in common. You know, before she started in on you, she’d set herself on trying to get under my skin. Here’s where the difference between you and I really starts to shine: I never folded to her games. She wasn’t just in your head, Andre, she had a penthouse suite in it. I had a firm line I drew for myself in the sand; despite her harassment, I never compromised it. I never let her get the better of me. You’re mentally weak, getting tugged around on a chain like an idiotic pup.
She was beneath you, Andre. In every single way, Katherine Phoenix was an absolute jobber. You didn’t need to prove yourself to be better than her; you didn’t need to avenge any slight she made against you or your girlfriend or children. She was psychotic; she deserved a restraining order and no more attention paid than that. But that’s not how you saw it – you completely fell for her bait. She turned you into a screaming, misogynistic mess. The world was laughing at you – Katherine Phoenix was the organ grinder, and Andre Holmes was the little monkey dancing for the crowd. She brought you down to her level. She made you her bitch. No matter that you beat her, you’ll never be able to scrub away the memories in the minds of the crowd. They’ll remember “Tumblr Holmes” and your own thorough attempts at dismantling your own credibility. You’re still recovering from the damage she did to you; you’re broken.
Memories, Andre, are in information. Information is power. The more you know about the world around you – the more you understand of how it works and what it thinks – the stronger and better prepared you’ll be. The reason for every failure you’ve had is a lack of information. A lack of thought. An abundance of distraction. I’ve warned you about this, but I don’t know if you totally get the idea. You can say that your mind is on me all you want, but I’m not going to buy it. Your head wasn’t in it against Slane; it was aimed at Katherine Phoenix and Dag Riddick. Your head isn’t in it against me; it’s aimed at Erin Fausse. Fausse, of course, is another person you shouldn’t be worrying about; a real champion wouldn’t have any time for some psychotic chick who can’t go over some of the worst performances of Sanchez’s career. But you’ve fallen for her bait. History repeats itself.
Information, Andre, is seeing that you’re weak. Your weakness is simple: women. From Katherine Phoenix to Erin Fausse, a single shrieking harpy can reduce you to an absolute mess. It’s no wonder why you and your girlfriend are beginning to split at the seams – your mind is on every other woman in the world. There’s another person this reminds me of: Joey Flash. That is the only overlap you’ll ever have with him – a weakness for dominating women. Why else do you think Flash was on such a skid after losing the Television Title? A woman got in his head. Had Celeste not intervened to take Phoenix out, he’d still be toiling away shadow boxing. Just like him, Andre, your weakness will end in your tragedy.
Information, Andre. Since I’ve returned, I have absolutely nothing on my mind except for one goal: claiming the UCI Championship. I’m not juggling superfluous nonsense or external worries. I have no one to set an example for or prove anything to. Even in the face of an annoying pup like Shadowlove, I know when to draw the line. This is the difference between us; where I realize a bad situation, you are unable to say no. You mistake recklessness for relentlessness. You’re confused power with stupidity.
You’re a moniker and little else; all bark and no bite. For someone who prides himself on his aggression and tenacity, you exhibit very little when the moment calls. DO you want to know what “relentlessness” is, Andre? Go throw on some Howard Black tape. Name me a time that I’ve come up short when it mattered? When the deck wasn’t completely stacked against me? I’ve made a career showing chumps like you for the paper tigers they really are. If you think this is the match that will make you, you’re only proving my point: you lack information. I’m sure I could throw you the phone number of a fat redneck who can school you. Maybe even one of a desert dweller.
Howard paused, taking another drag of his cigarette before flicking the ash down into the small porcelain ashtray on the table before him.
Howard Black: And speaking of phones…
Howard reached over for his cellphone, picking it up and flipping through a few screens before looking back at the camera.
Howard Black: You have this impression that we’re friends, Andre. Let me be clear: we’re not. That doesn’t mean we’re enemies. Hell, I don’t even dislike you; I have absolutely no opinion on what sort of a man you are, even if I’ve spent the last five minutes grilling you. Do I hate the comparison between us? You bet your ass. Do I think you hate it? I have no doubt in my mind. Why wouldn’t you? Would you really want to spend your career in the shadow of a man you hardly know? Hell, I’m glad you didn’t follow Bonnie into the Guardians; I sometimes wish I’d never bothered shacking up with the Sentinels. But that doesn’t mean a stigma hasn’t stuck to you, one you’re unable to shake.
Information, Andre, is knowing the truth. It’s knowing how people see you and what they really think. Some people will say anything in public before saying another thing in private. I’ll grill you and tell you that we aren’t friends because I happen to respect you. I’m not the type to keep my opinion to myself or keep secrets; that’s a coward’s game. Speaking of cowards, I have the most fantastic voice mail to show you from our World Champion.
Howard pressed a button on his phone, and the voice of Crow McMorris echoed from the speaker.
Voice of Crow: Hello Howard, it’s me Crow…
Howard smiled, sliding his thumb across the screen to forward the video.
Howard Black: Let’s get to the good part.
Voice of Crow: ...And we’re wondering right now, why you, you fucking midget prick, decided to be a small man, Howard. Why did you become a little man? An Andre Holmes when your head used to be held so high? Yeah, that’s how low you’ve sunk...
Howard tapped the screen to pause the voice mail. He looked back up again, the smile slowly widening into a grin. His voice was low and amused.
Howard Black: Oh, there’s more.
Voice of Crow: ...You’ve become a copy of a copy, Howard. A pale imitation of your imitation; that desperation in your bloodshot, sullen eyes when you struck me last night. So fucking pathetic, I might add. I’ve seen that look before though, in another. In Andre’s blubbering boo boo face...
Howard’s thumb hit the screen again.
Howard Black: What was that Crow said to you on Twitter? “Respect, Andre. That was one hell of a match”? That’s just it, isn’t it? The respect you demand? The respect you so deeply crave? It’s not given to you. Even with that little gesture over Twitter, can you believe in the sincerity of Crow McMorris? No, of course you can’t. He’s a liar, Andre; a coward. Crow respects no man – he offers you a token compliment hoping you’ll take the bait and not see through him. Which reminds me…
Howard unpaused the voice mail once more.
Voice of Crow: ...So easy to manipulate that man; it’s sickening when you really think about it...
Howard scoffed as he paused the voice mail once more.
Howard Black: A preemptive confession, perhaps? Does this sound like an opponent who finds you worthy?
Voice of Crow: ...A one note dark knight fanboy with dreams of wearing your skin. Yeah, Andre wants to be just as misogynistic as you, Howie. Just as dysfunctional as you. He can't help himself, that “Buffalo Bill Holmes”. He sees you fall on your knees, Howie; catches you preying to the sky and he just wants to join in. He wants that lotion over his skin or he gets the hose again. That's the kind of fan you inspire, Howard. Twisted, doppelgänger psychos, who lose their shit when faced by women with opinions. Or odds they just can't surmount. Or titles they have no business challenging for...
Howard Black: The real tragedy, Andre? You proved Crow completely correct. He said you had no business being in the ring with him, and he beat you to make his point. Oh, sure, he’ll send out the flowers and “Get Well Soon!” card, but it’s a transparent gesture to hide a mocking smile. But, of course, that’s not all.
Voice of Crow: ...And yet this Andre Holmes, this small man who hates women, who despises himself almost as much as you; he still calls considers himself a hero in spite of his loathsomeness. This little, talentless man who dreams big while stinking up match after match with hack moves and labored attacks. This journeyman who thinks of himself as a champion of the people. A fake Teddy Blaze on top of a fake Howard Black, waiting in the wings “ready” to rise up and dominate the business in his Don Quixotic mind. This “relentless” Andre Holmes. This zealot with heady delusions running all the way through his brittle, glass shell...
Howard Black: This is what information looks like, Andre. This is the real face of the man who sits at the top of this company and dances and pretends himself to be a noble warrior of the people. This is the man who decided he would run your whole career into the ground over the phone to a man he hates then turn around and offer “respect.” There is no respect, Andre. If you accept the respect of Crow, you have no respect for yourself. I will avenge you when I face Crow at #BeachMania, but first I’m going to make you tap. Nothing personal. No insult intended.
I’m going to beat you to liberate you, once and for all, from the chains of this “new Howard Black” moniker. When the bell rings, everyone will see that no one dares be compared to me – I’m on a level of my own above the entire world. That, Andre, is my gift to you. And I give you this gift to make up for the slight Scarecrow has bestowed upon you. Of the insults that went too far. For this…
He unpaused the voice mail for a final time.
Voice of Crow: That hack actor, reliving your greatest performance through his tired, strung out family.
Howard paused the voice mail and set his phone down.
Howard Black: I don’t think I need to elaborate. I’ll get to the end of this diatribe: I’m going to use you, Andre, just as Crow used you. I’m going to make this win over you be the next step in the ladder I’m building towards the heavens. I respect you, and that’s why I’m man enough to look you in the eye and tell you this: you’re just another rung. I’ll give you a great match, Andre. I’ll give you the best match of your career up until this point. When the ref helps you walk to the back, gently putting your aching arm in a sling, the crowd will go wild and chant your name. The effort you put in will inspire others, just as the effort Rocky put in against Apollo Creed. But we all know how the movie ended – we all know that when the bell rung, Creed’s arm was raised. That’s the same fate destined for you.
Information, Andre. I’ve now given you a taste of the differences between us. I’m more ready for this match than you. I’m more prepared to take on Scarecrow than you were. I’m more able to be at the top of this company than you’ve proven. If you’re really “Buffalo Bill Holmes” as Scarecrow has said, I suggest you pay attention this Sunday in the ring: I’m going to show you how it’s really done. And if you’re not trying to be me, if you’re better than everyone thinks and can stand on your own feet, then prove it. Your track record is abysmal – I have zero faith in you to give me your best effort. But I hope for it, Andre. It will make beating you so much fucking sweeter.
Howard stubbed out his cigarette before standing up, crossing to the camera, and ending the recording.
A slow clap emitted from the darkened room standing next to the stairwell; until that moment, Howard had hardly noticed the door was open. Sarah Black stepped from out of the shadows, a thin smile on her face as she crossed the basement, her bare feet padding lightly on the concrete floor. Howard regarded her coolly, his mouth turned down in an annoyed frown as he turned back to the camera.
Sarah Black: I think that was your best in quite some time.
Howard scoffed, his focus on disassembling the camera as Sarah approached behind him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders in a hug as she rested her cheek against his back. Howard tensed visibly, his voice low and growling.
Howard Black: Don’t... touch me.
Sarah released him, walking around to face her husband. Her dull blue eyes expressed concern as her smile vanished and her head tilted to the side.
Sarah Black: Oh, don’t be like that. I’m trying to be supportive.
Howard laughed, removing the camera from its tripod and placing it into the open carrying case. After zipping the bag closed, he tossed the strap over his shoulder and rose, turning to lock eyes with Sarah. The two stood in silence before Howard shook his head and walked past her to the stairwell. She followed close behind.
Sarah Black: At least you aren’t drunk this time. You smell like a bar, but you seem relatively cognizant, unlike last week.
Howard’s response dripped with sarcasm.
Howard Black: Yeah, I thought I’d save a little money for us to go on a fete. How does Madison, Wisconsin sound?
It was Sarah’s turn to laugh dryly.
Sarah Black: Are you seriously inviting me along?
Howard Black: The hell do you think?
Howard crossed the dining room to the living room, dropping the camera bag beside one of the couches before flopping down on it.
Sarah Black: So I suppose you aren’t coming to bed again?
Howard Black: Nope. Couch is just fine.
Sarah Black: And here I thought you told David you were going to try to make this work.
Howard lurched up, turning to face Sarah. His mouth dropped open slightly as his brow furrowed in anger.
Howard Black: How do you know I said that?
Sarah smiled.
Sarah Black: What were you talking about earlier, Howie? Information?
Howard stared at her for a moment, his jaw clenching in anger before he turned away and flopped back down on the couch.
Howard Black: Just because I’m not going to seek a divorce doesn’t mean I’m going to make this “work.”
Sarah approached the couch, crouching down and dangling her arms over the back.
Sarah Black: Well, tell you what. We’ll switch for tonight: you can sleep in the bed you paid for, and I’ll take the couch.
Howard scoffed, rolling onto his back to look up at her.
Howard Black: Mighty magnanimous of you.
Sarah Black: You need your rest, future champ. I’m sure the woman you married wouldn’t mind taking one for the team.
Howard regarded her coldly. His voice was low and tense.
Howard Black: You are not the woman I married.
Sarah smiled wryly, her own voice dropping to match his.
Sarah Black: Have you looked at me lately? Who do you think I am?
The room was quiet. Howard rolled off the couch and rose to his feet, grabbing the camera bag as he made his way to the stairs.
Howard Black: Just because you look like her doesn’t mean you are her.
Sarah turned with him, calling out after him before he entered the hallway.
Sarah Black: And what will you do when you get that belt? When you sit atop that mountain with nothing but a bit of gold on a strap of leather with nothing else? When you’ve reduced it all to ash?
Howard paused, turning back to her. His eyes glowed with hate as he spoke through a clenched jaw.
Howard Black: Then I’ll have done exactly what I had to do.
Sarah did not follow Howard up the steep steps to the bedroom. When inside, Howard closed the door behind him, locked it, and flopped onto the bed.
Sleep did not come easy for the Lost Boy. As he lay in the glow of the bedroom lamp, unwilling to get up and turn it off, he thought back once more to that spot in Love Library which no longer existed. The past was just that – the past. There could be no going back; the only way to go was forward. Things could never be like how they were in WCF, when he’d call Dune or Occulo once a week to sometimes talk about nothing at all. They could never again be like the times he’d sit in strange bars in exotic cities with David, drinking and chatting about their lives. They could never be the sad smile on the face of a beautiful woman with big, brilliant blue eyes or the excited giggle of a little boy.
He thought again about the new CBA building, replacing the old one he found so attractive. He thought about Andre Holmes, “the new Howard Black.” Was “new” necessarily better than “old”? No, of course not. Some ugly modernist structure could never replace that old classical temple to education he’d walked through so many times. In the same way, Andre Holmes could never replace him. It didn’t matter how many people wanted to talk about what was shinier and newer – he’d prove on Sunday that the ring was still his. Accept no imitations – there was only one Howard Black.
And finally, he thought of that statue outside of Memorial Stadium. He thought of the six Huskers pulling down the lone enemy, that sense of family and teamwork which united them in victory. He thought of how he’d never be part of that statue; how he’d never been part of that team; how he no longer had anyone to rely on but himself. The lights would be on him once more – not on Saturday, this time, but on Sunday. Howard would take the field alone, as he’d found he did best, and he’d hoist the trophy for his team – himself. It was all he had left. It was all he could do.
He didn’t sleep well that night. The bed felt so empty with only one occupant.
6/20/16
You have reached the voice mailbox of (…Howard Black…) to leave a message, record at the tone.
Billy: “Shitfire, Howie, I ran out of time on that message. Look what’s the deal with you turning on the fans and attacking Crow? I mean sure, he’s back because someone annotated the dead and zombies are bad, but I’m hurt man. You taught me to be a good guy and stand up for the people! I don’t reckon I liked it all that much when you attacked Crow the other day and I don’t think he did either! Call me, man! We gotta talk this through! Oh and I was thinking abou----“
Beeeeeep