IV: When the Levee Broke (Part I)
Jul 26, 2016 20:26:06 GMT -6
Spencer Adams, "Relentless" Andre Holmes, and 4 more like this
Post by Deleted on Jul 26, 2016 20:26:06 GMT -6
“If it keeps on raining, the levee’s going to break.”
-“When the Levee Breaks”
“Dark Knight Feeling:
Die and be a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.
I went from the favorite to the most hated,
What would you rather be underpaid or overrated?”
-“So Appalled”
Badger Ranch
Somewhere Outside of Chadron, NE
7/25/16
As another strike sent the heavy bag swinging, another bead of sweat dripped from Howard’s hairline down the side of his face until collecting on his chin. The light was low in the barn, where he’d constructed his new gym after purchasing and renovating the property. After his injury, he and David had sat down to go over his finances – meticulously saved and invested under David’s careful eye – and the dividends had been generous despite his short career. It was easily enough to do what he’d wanted: to leave Lincoln and raise a family in the same quiet, easy style his parents had provided for him. “The Good Life” – that’s what they called it. Even made it the state motto for a period of time. And for a few golden months, they had just that. Things were different now; that promise and prospect of “the Good Life” seemed a fleeting memory or a cruel joke. But at the time, the feature had looked so fucking good.
Not being one terribly interested in the mundane trappings of agriculture – despite a firm belief that labor built character – the old barn had been lovingly restored for Howard’s personal “man cave”. Sarah would often laugh when recounting to visitors the staggering difference in meaning that term held in their house – while some men would’ve decorated with a beer cooler, an X-Box, and the best surround sound system money could buy, Howard had opted to buy new work-out equipment and a personal wrestling ring. For a time, he’d even considered opening a wrestling school to train the next generation of eager, bright eyed talent. “Black and Blue Wrestling School”; it would’ve been a good choice of name. Offering to train Billy had been the test phase for him – if he could get a 500 pounder with seemingly no talent to fighting shape and able to contend, he could train anyone. That, of course, never got off the ground: Johnny Rabid injured Billy, for one, and then life came part at the scenes. Nonetheless, the gym was still in pristine condition, even if lined with a coat of dust – it would serve his final week of preparation well, indeed.
The tape on his knuckles had already began to blacken with dirt and sweat, unraveling at the end a bit more with each successive strike. Despite the pain in his aching hands, he gritted his teeth and continued the rain of blows, turning on his heel to throw a backfist before leaping backwards for a reverse dropsault. As he hit the floor on his stomach, he rolled back to his base, wheeling again to face the bag, another bead of sweat dropping to the floor. Taped to the bag, the face of Scarecrow stared back at him. He charged, leaping in the air and sending a knee directly into its face, gripping the sides of the bag as he held the strike in a moment of repose before sliding to his feet. He stared at it with eyes burning in loathing as he breathed slowly and methodically. His fists clenched tightly, rising to enter his fighting stance. As he cocked back to deliver another strike, the calm of the gym was shattered by a soft, slow clap. His hands relaxed, falling to his sides; his eyes and head followed suit to stare at the floor.
Sarah Black: You really take no days off, do you?
Howard’s body had gone numb and motionless as though some terrible spider had climbed down from the rafters to sink its fangs into his neck and deliver a paralyzing dose of venom to his system. Her sandals slapped against the matts as she approached him, her hand eventually resting on his left shoulder as she stood at his side staring at the torn image of Crow taped to the bag. When Howard responded, his voice was low and soft – could it have been the lacings of defeat in his throat?
Howard Black: I told you not to come.
She scoffed, patting him on the shoulder before removing her hand and stepping around the bag.
Sarah Black: If you didn’t want me to come, you shouldn’t have told me where you’d be.
Howard’s eyes remained on the floor, unable to greet her.
Howard Black: You’d have figured it out.
She paused to consider this, offering a half-hearted shrug.
Sarah Black: And here I thought this place was tainted to you. I figured you’d have sold it by now.
Howard shook his head, life slowly entering his form once more. His head tilted upwards, turning to make eye contact with the dull blue eyes that regarded him.
Howard Black: You know I’ll never give up.
She stopped, turning to full face him as a thin smile stretched across her lips.
Sarah Black: Or are you?
She continued around the bag to join him once more at his side, her eyes once more on the picture of Crow staring back at them.
Sarah Black: You know, I’m surprised. I imagined you’d have put a picture of me up there.
Howard laughed dryly, shaking his head as his eyes returned to the picture of Crow on the punching bag.
Howard Black: I’m not fighting you at BeachMania; I’m fighting Crow. Besides…
He paused, his eyes tracing the lines on Crow’s face – the smug smile on his lips and the intensity of his stare.
Howard Black: …you would have gotten off on that.
Sarah Black: I never said I wasn’t a little weird.
They stood in silence. Howard continued to regard the picture; he’d chosen it specifically. It was the look in Crow’s eyes which caught him – he almost felt like Crow could see him through it. Then again, with what Crow had become, he wouldn’t put it past him.
Were you there, Cory? Can you see me right now? Can you see each hit I throw your way? Every knee and fist and kick? Can you see the man I am? What I’ve become? Are you ready for me?
Sarah Black: Are you ready for him?
Howard nodded.
Howard Black: I’ve been ready. I played it safe to make sure I hadn’t lost it, but in retrospect I could’ve taken him on my first week back.
Sarah Black: Do you think you wasted your time on the others? Shadowlove, Updegraff, and Holmes?
Howard shook his head.
Howard Black: It was what I needed. Send a reminder. Make them remember me.
He paused, a thin smile tracing across his lips.
Howard Black: It’s perfect, you know. Almost too perfect. He was the exact guy I needed to be holding that belt. I know him – I know him like my right hand. Well, almost.
Sarah cocked an eyebrow, turning to look at her husband.
Sarah Black: Almost?
Howard Black: He’s not totally the same Cory I knew. Maybe it’s the whole “back from the dead” thing, but he’s different.
Sarah Black: How so?
Howard Black: I thought he’d act differently. I thought he’d be more level-headed. Less aggressive and less angry.
Sarah Black: A man he considered his brother attacked him from behind. Not every day a man sees the Ghost of Christmas Past knocking on his door.
Howard shook his head once more.
Howard Black: No, he was calm when he remembered who Wade was; he’s dealt with people coming back from the shadows for him. Yeah, maybe you’re right – maybe the sight of a friend turning on him has touched a nerve. But that doesn’t fully explain it. He and Kaz had been estranged and hostile after they’d been friends; he was never like this to Kaz. He’s different.
Sarah Black: Perhaps the Incident in Mexico changed things.
Howard looked askance at her.
Howard Black: Maybe it changed more than just him. Maybe it touched everyone it could.
Sarah Black: Maybe. But I wouldn’t ruminate on it too much. Things would be the same for you even if it hadn’t happened.
Howard Black: Would they?
Sarah Black: Don’t deny your own culpability in your fate.
Howard’s eyes fell to the ground once more. His voice came out low and cold.
Howard Black: That’s how you see it, don’t you? That it’s my fault.
Sarah smiled sweetly, stepping behind her husband to place her chin on his shoulder and her lips to his ear. She whispered low and soft, even though the room was empty save for them.
Sarah Black: You had a choice. You made your bed. Now lie in it.
She turned from him to the door of the barn. As she crossed the room, she called over her shoulder.
Sarah Black: Will you be much longer? It’s already almost One O’Clock.
Howard Black: Not much.
Sarah Black: Good. I suppose I won’t be seeing you in bed?
Howard Black: No. I’ll sleep in the guest room.
She stopped at the door, turning to face his back.
Sarah Black: You slept in the master bedroom last night.
Howard Black: You weren’t sleeping in it.
She studied him, a thin smile crossing her lips.
Sarah Black: You’ll cave Howard. You won’t admit it, but you’re close – I can tell. When you’re ready, I’ll be waiting for you.
She slid the door of the barn behind her as she left. Howard remained standing before the punching bag, his eyes locked on the battered image of his former friend staring back at him. His mind turned over the events of the last few months – of the change between him and Sarah, sending Joey to live with his parents, the decision to resume his career, and the decision to attack Crow. Here he stood, on the precipice of his victory. His hand reached for the photo, tearing it down from the bag and crumpling it into a ball. As he turned to cross the barn for the door, he tossed the balled picture into the trash can. He couldn’t continue to face it – he wouldn’t look Crow in the eye until he was across the ring from him and had to.
Promotional Video Sent to UCI Headquarters #1
Howard Black: I hope you’ve had a good rest, Crow. I hope you’ve enjoyed a month of laughably incompetent competition. I hope you’ve enjoyed the compulsory backrubs and tug jobs from Buddy Roman. Hell, I even hope you’ve enjoyed the peaceful slumber of death. Do you sleep, Cory? Is your body capable at all of shutting down and offering you silence?
Then again, maybe that’s not what you want at all. Nah, the dead want to be alive again, isn’t that right? Why you came back? Why you now float aimlessly between strip clubs guzzling rot gut whiskey and shoving coke up your nose? You envy the living for continuing on in an uncompromised existence you can no longer savor. Instead you’ve taken advantage of your newly found lack of limits to push for the next big high. “Which stripper is going to fuck my guts out – literally?” “How much blow can one man do in three hours?” “How long can I hold onto the UCI Championship before I’m exposed?” This company isn’t about honor for you, Cory. It’s not about “the people” you pander to or proving you’re the best – it’s that fucking belt around your waist and the roar of appreciation. It’s the lights and the screams – the affirmation and the thrill of being on top. It’s the accolades and the prestige. And if you’d just fucking admit that it was all about you, maybe you could find some peace.
It staggers me how a man so venerated – so respected and admired for his dedication and tenacity – could fall to become the Hippo King you are now. Something changed; maybe it was death. Maybe it was laziness. But my guess? It was the discovery of your own lineage. Congratulations, Cory – you’re a McMorris. It’s a name you wear so proudly. It’s a legacy you shoulder and stand beside, your banner billowing in the wind. You hear the roar, close your eyes, and soak in the appreciation for the pedigree of the McMorris Family and how you plan to serve it faithfully. What you don’t realize, like your father before you, is that we’re not laughing with you: we’re laughing at you.
Howard paused, raising the cigarette to his mouth to take a slow drag. With his thumb, he ashed the cigarette into the empty can, his eyes fixed carefully to avoid dropping ash on the table. After completion, he looked back at the camera with a thin smile.
Howard Black: If in becoming a McMorris you wanted to become another overplayed, second-rate, one-dimensional pop culture regurgitation and mallcore edginess, then congratulations – you’ve succeeded beyond your wildest dreams. With the wide eyes of an aspiring son, you saw the swirling tempest of attention around your father and craved it. You saw him strike down enemies and become a feared competitor in the only division he could – the Internet Title. Hell, if there was an Internet Mt. Rushmore it would feature your Father, Alex Richards, and Shia LaBoef. Of course, outside of that division your father was a rollick disaster – a joke told so many times we all knew the punchline. Your father couldn’t get past Katherine Phoenix in the Hardcore Division; he was stuck in the catacombs of Novelty Hell. You, Cory, could never move past the People’s Title. Even when you moved up a rank for that same Internet Title you could never defend at the Ultimate Showdown, you found yourself plummeting back to Earth. Poor Cory Icarus – he flew too high, and his wings melted. And down… well, you fell.
Where did you land? Right in the middle of a new company with a rollicked roster. It was more than easy for you to tear through the competition, finding yourself against the reliable choke artist Jay Omega in the finals. Like your father before you, you found yourself at a fortuitous situation – you were against an opponent more disliked. They cheered your win less because of you and more out of the fear of another Omega reign; with Omega taking off again for the outer quadrants, we can see that desire was well-founded. But like your father before you, you’ve mistaken “votes against” as “votes for”. Like Jared Holmes stepping in to smack down Dag Riddik, it was never about faith to him – it was about the dislike of another. The enemy of my enemy is my friend – but we neither have friends. All we will have in the ring is one another.
There is a quantifiable difference between us – and it’s not who’s alive and who isn’t. One of us has chosen a derelict life out of preference, the other out of necessity; one of us has nothing after giving it away while the other has nothing after everything was ripped from him; can you guess which is which? You can bill yourself as “from the lost highways of America” all you want. Hell, you can even fancy yourself as “Kemosabe”, the walker between worlds, after your death. But that belies your true character: you’re a dumpster diver – a third-rate, thrift store crust punk who revels in no longer having to shower since he’s died. I had nothing, Cory; I clawed my way to the top sleeping on couches when in the Indies so my wife and son didn’t starve. I lived in a dilapidated house from 1910 in the North Bottoms of Lincoln because it was all we could afford. And when I finally thought I had everything I could ever desire? When I had love, a good home, and friendship? It all vanished like tears in the rain.
A man like you does not understand and appreciate the things he’s been given. He fritters away his talents on squash matches against harlequin nobodies instead of standing up for the title bestowed upon him. That belt is just another thing to drape over your shoulder at the strip club, hoping some clown-painted honey will see gold and get dollars in her eyes so you can get a handy in the private dance room. And when it’s run its course for you? You’ll probably go pawn it off to grab another eight ball and sit in an alley with your own man, picking scraps out of the trash behind the local Taco Bell and jacking off in the bushes.
You disgust me, Cory. You insult me with every second that strap is secured around your waist. You have no sense of value or appreciation. You have no sense of honor, duty, or courage to give that belt and title the respect and dignity they deserve. I’m going to liberate it, Cory. When you slap the mat in submission at Beachmania and I stand over you, holding it in the air victorious, you’re going to get the first glimpse of the most dominating championship reign since Dune – beyond, even. As for you and your legacy? You’ll go down in the books as having been the first UCI Champion, and everyone will sigh with doe-eyed nostalgia about how much you deserved that honor before they shrug their shoulders and go back to talking about me.
I’m the Best That Never Was. On Sunday, I’ll become the Best There Is.
Howard dropped the cigarette into the open top of the can, the flame extinguishing with an audible hiss in the bottom pool of liquid. Placing the can down on the bedside table, he leaned forward and turned off the camera.
Howard’s breath was labored as he ran through the thick, smoky air of the Mojave Desert, each step requiring a great exertion of energy as he fought to push forward through the smothering sand. His arms swung wildly by his side, attempting to keep himself upright and balanced, and his eyes squinted bloodshot and sore from the irritation of the smoke frothing up from the dunes beneath him. He coughed a deep, dry hack, and his hands instinctively came up to cover his mouth – it was all the unforgiving environment needed. His balance now compromised, he pitched forward into the sand, it quickly swallowing him up to his shoulders as he thrashed to pull himself free. With each passing second in bondage, he knew it was only closer.
As he finally crawled to the surface, he struggled to wrench his legs free of the porous ground, coming to repose on his stomach. It was a precarious motion upwards, careful to not submerge himself once more before he continued his escape again, the expansive land before him obscured. It took one wrong step, and he once more found himself tumbling, only this time it was down a great slope. As his body tumbled head-over-heels, the sand beneath hardly cushioned any of the blow, and by the time he reached the bottom of the incline, his body ached viciously. Now on his back, he opened his eyes to look up and found his mouth dropping in horror as he once again laid at the scorched bottom of the Sedan Crater.
The reaper stood at the top of the ridge once more, the man with the face of a Jackal standing to his right with a thin, gloved hand placed on his shoulder. The reaper was not the hulking, muscular figure he’d seen so many times before: this time the reaper was thin and tall with a hood draped over his face. In one hand, he held an empty hourglass – the other rested on the top of an oil drum. From beneath the hood, a faint red light pulsed – the glow of a cigarette. The reaper stepped into the drum, submerging himself in thick black oil up to his neck, his cigarette dangerously close to the caustic substance. As he rose back to stand, the figure reached up to push the hood off its head, revealing the sunken and ghastly features of a Crow McMorris long since dead. With hollow eyes, the specter peered down at Howard, a smile causing his withered lips to pull up and expose his entire mouth of teeth.
Scarecrow: I warned you, Howard. Everyone warned you. But you didn’t listen. When you play with fire…
His hands reached up for the cigarette, the oil soaking his skin igniting immediately to cast a hideous shadow upon his taunt face. Despite the presence of the fire, the figure did not react or show any signs of discomfort or pain.
Scarecrow: …everything will burn.
As it dropped the cigarette, the barrel exploded into a pillar of fire, rising up into the desert sky. A familiar tune drifted on the smoke.
Mister Sandman, bring me a dream…
…Make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen…
…Give him two lips, like roses and clover
…And tell him that his lonesome nights are over…
The sky rumbled with a low roar – the unmistakable cry of the approaching bomber Howard had seen in countless nightmares. He pushed himself to his feet, determined to free himself as he clawed at the slope of the massive crater for a handhold. One more – as had happened innumerable times – the sand offered him no solace, content to sift through his fingers as if water.
Mister Sandman, I’m so alone…
…Don’t have nobody to call my own…
The black behemoth passed overhead, the hangar doors audibly unlocking as its payload tumbled towards the Crater. Howard continued to claw, his hands going raw from the coarse grains rubbing against his increasingly desperate struggles. The bomb continued to plummet.
…So please turn on your magic beam
…Mister Sandman…
Please…
…Please…
…Please
…Mister Sandman…
Bring us a dream…
Howard’s eyes cast upward as he screamed, his hands flying up to protect himself in vain. As the warhead impacted with the desolate bottom of the crater, the world went white and a Jackal laughed.
Promotional Video Sent to UCI Headquarters #2
This video opened as well to the interior of the guest room, with Howard sitting in the same position and wearing the same clothes. Even the same empty beer can sat beside him on the bedside table. This, of course, exposed the likelihood that this video was filmed back-to-back with the previous video package. Reaching over to the table, Howard picked up his pack of Camel filters and flipped the top open, drawing one of the cigarettes out to place between his lips. Setting the pack back down, he picked up the lighter lying beside it, raising it to the end of the cigarette and igniting it. He took a long drag, placing the lighter down as a few puffs of smoke left his lips to stoke the ember. Satisfied, he looked into the camera.
Howard Black: There is no feasible way in which you can fight harder in this match than me, Crow. It’s no different than how I can look you in the eyes and tell you in complete seriousness that there’s no way you want that belt more than me. I need it, Crow. I need it more than you can understand or I can ever truly explain. Don’t you see? This is all I have. It’s not about wants – it’s about needs.
In an opposite sense, you’ll never be able to fight harder than me because when it comes to states of living and dying, you have nothing. There’s this funny notion about the man who is afraid of death being the more valiant fighter or more fearsome warrior; I disagree. No, Cory, there’s nothing admirable about charging recklessly into battle – only stupidity. It was that stupidity which did you in the first time, bringing yourself to a position as perilous as a catwalk above the ring. You paid for that stupidity, and you’ve continued it by clawing out of your grave. You have nothing to live for – there is no living for you. But me? I can just as easily lose it as you could be pushed over a railing.
I’ll fight harder than you because unlike you, I can die. Am I afraid of death? Of course I am; no belief in God will change the natural fear of death in men. My tasks are not yet complete; I still have much to do. No, I’ll fight until I can hardly stand – but stand I shall.
I said before that you insult me. I’d like to reaffirm this – this whole month has been nothing but one insult after another towards me. Have you compared the months we’ve had? Have you seen the difference in our paths? Have you watched while I made my fingers bleed clawing up the slopes and you sat on your throne, a bloviated reflection of Thomas Bates chortling to himself as he picks low hanging fruit, writes idiotic lines like “midget” and “prick” on them to toss down me?
Of course not. No, you’d never be willing to look in the mirror and give it a moment of self-reflection for even a second; it’s hard to see a mirror when your head’s up your ass. You see, Cory, you’ve had me all wrong. I was sincere when I said it was nothing personal – just business. I needed the belt, and you happened to hold it. I domed you to send a message – to ensure that the intentions of my return were never misconstrued or misunderstood: I wanted your belt.
Your father was a fucking idiot when he confronted me the next night. When I wore that “Dark Knight Feeling” t-shirt to the ring, it wasn’t self-congratulatory; it was honesty. My own prophecy and trademark phrase had truly turned against me: I lived long enough to see myself become the villain. It was an easy enough jump to make – if you were “never over” as you claimed I never was, what would you do? When you knew you deserved that shot to be at the top of anything but never had it, what would you do? Would you rather be underpaid or overrated? No, I knew my position and my role. Truth be told, Cory? I was tired. Once I considered that I could be content with being the supporting character in a story bigger than myself; for a time I thought this was true. Then when everything crumbled, I realized I had nothing to show for it. I had given myself to others and received nothing in return: not from Kaz, nor Dune, nor Occulo, nor Flash, nor you. It was then I realized I was not being selfless; others were being selfish. I could not abide not being the primary character in my own story. And that’s when I decided that if I couldn’t be the protagonist? I’d be the antagonist.
In a world of time-traveling superheroes and martial artist ghosts and desert nomads and mafiosos with reality-distorting finishers and a group of frat boys fronting some sort of cult, it seems everyone has forgotten that everything begins and ends in the ring – that all roads must lead to the top of the mountain. You, Crow, have forgotten about it. Maybe even the whole roster. I’ve succeeded where everyone I’ve faced has failed because I kept my eye on my goal but also never underestimated the journey before me. Your privilege of being champion has made you weak; you’ve been able to float through meaningless opponents and keep your eye and focus entirely on me, hoping it will prepare you for what awaits. It won’t. You’ve replaced any true grit with obsession, and in doing so you’ve exposed your greatest weakness to me – you think your perceptions infallible. You’re overly confident in your estimation of our match-up, and you’ve yet to see you’ve completely missed the bigger picture. I can assure you of this: you’re blind. You’re wrong. The wrongness of your deductions about me will bring your downfall. You underestimate me.
I’m not mad, Cory. I’m not a blithering, drooling lunatic or a “zealot”, as you put it. Truth be told, my faith is not nearly as solid as it once was. But this doesn’t hinder me; it makes me stronger. I have nothing holding me back now. I have no lines I’m unwilling to cross or worries about the repercussions of my actions. Is there a God, Cory? I’m not sure. Perhaps that faith has lead me nowhere. Perhaps it’s best I take my fate into my own hands instead. Sunday shall be the final step in the first new chapter – one in which concludes on Sunday. So far? Everything has gone according to plan.
I’m ready for you. I’ve been waiting for this moment all of my life. From the days those years ago when I stepped out onto a football field, I’d been preparing for the day I climbed to the top. As I toiled through the indies and broke my back in WCF, I was preparing myself. The Howard Black you face today is not the one you cowardly took out in the Ultimate Showdown – not for the reasons you think but because I’ve only become stronger. Have you reached the physical peaks I’ve climbed? Have you stood defiant to the whole world and completed your goals in spite of all opposition? I doubt it – you’ve been idle and reveling in your newfound immortality to suck the carnal pleasures existence allows. It is only now that I see happiness and success are mutually exclusive; I could never reach this point if I were a content man. Instead, it’s been my pain and my anger which has driven me here. That pain and anger which drove me to be more than a “midget”, as you decided to put it; the pain and anger which drove me to overcome my physical shortcomings and become the best technical wrestler in this company; the pain and anger which helped me climb the “Unpassable Mountain”; the pain and anger which has brought me to the precipice of the summit with only you in my way.
What could you possibly show to match any of the heights of my career? I’ve defeated men you pale to – like Thomas Bates and Dune – I’ve held belts you could never hold. The only distinction between us in the belt around your waist; but that will be remedied soon enough. No matter what you may think or what you may expect, the odds are already posted in Vegas: Howard Black wins resoundingly. I’m faster than you. I’m stronger than you. I’m a better mat wrestler, and I’m even willing to bet I can hit harder than you. The only thing you think you have is a superior intellect – but even this is a poor estimation on your behalf.
You’re blind, Cory. You’re lost. You have no idea what’s coming; you’ve demonstrated it aptly. Even with Jim Thuggin whispering in your ear, you’ve missed it. You’ll see soon enough: Howard Black must win. I will win. And when I stand over your broken body, your belt over my shoulder, I’ll shed a tear that it had to be this way.
I’m sorry, Cory. On Sunday, you meet your second demise.
He leans forward again, reaching for the camera with the cigarette still in his hand and ends the recording.
Badger Ranch
Somewhere Outside Chadron, NE
7/26/2016 1:30 AM
As the bomb burst and the crater was consumed, Howard woke with a jolt, bolting upright in bed with his eyes fixed wide and wild on the wall before him. Sweat poured down his skin, his breathing low and shallow in panic as the disorienting remnants of sleep left his body and mind. He felt hot – was it anxiety? Was the smell of sulfur the final remnants of lingering memories of the recurring nightmare which had cost him innumerable nights? After a moment of composition, his eyes slowly drifted to the crack beneath the guest room door, where a faint flickering light cast a shadow into the bedroom. His eyes fixed on the beam, his nostrils flaring as he took a slow, deep inhale of the air and concluded that any phantom smells must have subsided by now. Reality and all of its consequences clicked in his head as he muttered to himself.
Howard Black: Oh, fuck.
He pushed out of bed, dressed only in a pair of gray boxer briefs and a white undershirt. He approached the door cautiously, and upon reaching it, he pressed the back of his right hand to the wooden portal before him – it was hot to the touch. He was too smart to try the handle – instead he simply threw his shoulder into the door, knocking it cleanly off its hinges as he found himself standing in the midst of a smoke-filled hallway. His hand comes up to his eyes, waving wildly in front of his face in vain to clear any smoke from his face. He pulls the collar of the white shirt up and over his nose and mouth as he turns around, ducking back into the guest room and making a mad dash to the dresser. His eyes fall on the silver crucifix necklace laid gently atop the oak bureau, and he snaps it up quickly, dropping it around his neck, before turning back to the hallway.
The heat had become stifling as the thick summer air intensified the blistering flames which had begun creeping down the carpet and up the walls. His hands and forearms up to protect his head, he charged forward to push through a wall of the inferno, finding himself staggering into the living room. On a mahogany mantle, the glass of several pictures had already cracked from the stress of the intense heat: a smiling Sarah Black sitting in a hospital bed, clutching a bundled baby; Howard holding the WCF Television Title above his head as he stood atop the crumpled form of Thomas Bates; Howard, Occulo, Dune, and Flash with arms raised following the match at Fifteen; Sarah in a graduation gown smiling as she holds up her MD at graduation from medical school. With the room mostly engulfed in flames, the furniture long since the possibility of salvation, Howard turn back and rushed to the opposite end of the hallway.
As the flames closed in, his mind scanned down the doors available to him: the bathroom, the open guest room, Joey’s old room. He charged forward, his shoulder lowered and he battered himself into the door before him and finding himself in a room with painted walls, paintstakingly and lovingly depicting the logos of several wrestling federations above ring posts painted into the corners and painted ropes stretching across the four walls. Posters of various wrestlers stared back at Howard: himself, Kaz Mazy, Dune, Scarecrow, and Teo del Sol. The bed was unmade; no one had gone into the room since Joey had been sent to Howard’s parents. Well, almost no one – a gift-wrapped present sat at the foot of the bed, waiting for the return of its recipient. Howard snatched the gift from the bed, clutching it to his chest as his gaze moves toward the window.
He lowers his head and shoulder once more, his left arm raising to shield his eyes as he leaps forward and crashed through the pane and onto the lawn behind it. As he hits the ground, he audibly groans, pushing himself up as he paces the burning house with the package still clutched in his arms. The flames had spread to the outside now, the roof cloaked in smoke as fire spilled up the shingles and into the night air. As he continued circling the house, his stomach dropped and his pulse quickened in panic, his eyes glued to the windows. Finally coming to the front of the house, the package fell from his limp arms as his eyes came across the sight of Sarah slamming her fist across the front window of the dining room, her eyes wide in horror and her mouth open in a scream muffled by the roar of the blaze. She doubled over, coughing with her hands to her mouth as she fell back against the dining room, her eyes opening in a look of fear as she slowly crumpled past the view from the outside.
Without thinking, Howard charged the window, leaping forward and crashing through into the dining room. Rolling to his feet, he found himself standing above the unconscious Sarah, and he quickly dropped to his knee to hoist her over his shoulders. His eyes and lungs stinging from the smoke, he turned back to the window to gently drop her to the outside before climbing over himself. Outside, he picked her up once more to drag her from the range of the blaze as the roof of the dining room sagged and began to buckle from the fire. Safely on the lawn, he rolled her onto her stomach and placed his hands on her ribs, pressing down fervently as he coughed. His voice came out hoarse and desperate as he began to administer CPR.
Howard Black: NO! Damnit, no!
He lowered his face to hers, his mouth pressing to hers as he breathed furiously into her lungs. His hands continued the frantic thrusts to her diaphragm until her eyes snapped open and her mouth opened to an eruption of coughs and desperate gasps for air. As she sat up, Howard’s arms swung around her in an instinctive embrace… before they slowly relaxed and he rose to his feet, the fear washing from his face and slowly replacing itself with a look of cold rage. Sarah’s eyes fluttered before her head turned to follow him.
Sarah Black: Howard… you saved my life.
Howard scoffed, stopping in his stride to turn and look back at the woman. His voice was laced with disgust.
Howard Black: I didn’t save “your life” – I saved hers.
Sarah pushed herself to shaky feet, delicately advancing on Howard. Her face seemed to express confusion, but perhaps it was the seeming exaggeration of the emotion or the twinkle in her eyes which would lead a casual spectator to suspect the validity of the emotion – especially the warry Howard Black. Sarah raised a hand to his shoulder.
Sarah Black: Howard, you need to stop this madness. What are you–
Howard’s hand shot up to catch her wrist, pulling it towards himself as he stepped forward to stare his wife in the eyes. His lip curled into a snarl as his voice came out low and firm.
Howard Black: Stop. Don’t you think for a second you can hide behind her voice and her face to continue to fuck with me. You have cost me my friendships. My son. My wife. Now you’ve cost me my home. But you will never cost me my sanity. So stop with the fucking games because I’ve done as you’ve asked and am on the threshold of giving you what you wanted and you still torture me.
He released her wrist, Sarah’s arm dropping to her side as the feign confusion soon replaced itself with a thin smile.
Howard Black: Look at me with your own eyes, not hers. Talk to me with your real voice. Remove your mask and face your pawn.
The smile slowly grew wider as Sarah’s eyes shined with malevolence.
Sarah Black: You were warned, Howard. If you play with fire…
Sarah’s voice dropped, twisting and distorting. It was the voice of a man of wealth and taste; a charming, refined man with the vocal echo of a deep rumbling beast.
Sarah Black?: …everything you love…
The dull blue eyes faded to a deep, wicked blackness that burned with cruel delight and chaotic malevolence. The familiar foe wearing Sarah Black’s skin laughed as it spoke its final lines.
The Jackal: …everything will be reduced to ash.
6/16/16
You have reached the voice mail box of (…Howard Black…) to leave a message, record at the tone.
Dune: Howard, it’s me - it’s Dune.
It’s been too long old friend. For that I apologize. I suppose it was only a matter of time before I receded from the public eye. It’s in my nature to remain in the shadows, and that’s where I’ve been since the spring. But I’ve grown restless, Howard - not because of the yearn to fight, though I feel it stronger every day. No...something’s been troubling me, and I think you know what that something is. Or rather...who that someone is.
We finished the job, right Howard?
It’s just after 3 a.m. here in the desert, and in truth I didn’t expect you to answer, but I had to call you anyway. I’ve been having dreams, Howard - terrible dreams. At first I dismissed them, but I can’t push them aside any longer. I have to know. I have to find out if they’re just that - dreams - or if they’ve crossed the threshold into our world. I have to know if Sarah’s alright; if young Joey’s alright...I have to know if you’re alright.
Are they, Howard? Are you?
Something in my bones tells me “no.” And knowing you - knowing Sarah - there’s only one thing that could be responsible. So tell me, Howard - did we finish what we set out to do all those months ago? Or has the worst happened - has he come back?
Call me any hour, day or night...or head west, for that matter. You know where to find me. I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll never forget what you did for me, Howard, and the only fitting way to repay you would be to return the favor. I only hope it’s one I need never repay.
Beeeeeeep