IV: When the Levee Broke (Part II)

It’s such a long way down.

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You have reached the voice mail box of (…Cory McMorris…) to leave a message, record at the tone.

Howard Black: …Hello, Cory. It’s … I-it’s Howard. Look, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m calling you and leaving this voice mail. It’s… well, I have some time alone where I don’t think anyone can hear. I haven’t been honest with you. Not in the way you think or the way you’ve chosen to view me in this last month. There’s more, you see – so much more. I had to call you. I have to tell you about this. I need to explain, and I can only hope to god you understand.

You must think I’m out of my head. That I’m not “the Howard Black you knew.” Maybe you think I’ve gone crazy. Perhaps it’s booze or pills or a failing family. I’ve tried to throw up as many red herrings as possible – some have come more naturally than others. I didn’t want to deceive you; I just couldn’t risk saying it aloud. I have no idea what that would have caused. Fuck, I don’t even know this phone call might cause. I guess it’s too late now. Too late for us. Maybe too late for me. I just … I hope it’s not too late for them. And I guess that’s what I’m trying to drive at. This isn’t about that fucking belt; it’s about her. Jesus, I’m still being cryptic aren’t I? Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m just… I guess I’ve gotten a bit too into my role. I’m trying to break the habit, please don’t fucking stop listening. You need to hear. You need to know.

I guess I need to get to the point.

Do you remember that night in the desert? The night when I was on Blue Velvet, I mean, and you sort of “phased in” during my search for answers? Do you remember the conversation we had? About the dreams you’d had? About that… that thing? Do you remember what you said to me? “When you play with fire, everything may burn.”

You were right. Goddamnit, you were right.

At first, everything seemed fine. I retired. I was happy. I didn’t care about wrestling or the belt or any of that shit. I didn’t need it. I had everything I wanted, and all I could think about was spending the rest of my life growing old in that ranch with the woman I loved while my son grew up to make his father proud. I had friends. I had family. I had you. And Kaz. And Dune and everyone. Life was good. So fucking good.

And then… Sarah started acting weird. It started with her eyes. You ever really look at Sarah’s eyes, Cory? They’re the most big, brilliant, beautiful blue eyes you’ll ever see. I could fall into those eyes and drown; they were like my fucking crack. One day, those eyes just didn’t seem so brilliant. Slowly, over time, it wasn’t just the eyes. I’d wake up at night, finding her staring at me. Then she stopped calling me “Howie” – Sarah hasn’t called me “Howard” since we fucking met in high school. Then I started having the reoccurring nightmare where I was back in that desert, trapped in a pit, and watching the bomb come tumbling out of the sky on top of me. I’d wake up in a cold sweat, and she’d be smiling. Like she knew and it made her happy. It wasn’t until those fucking words came out of her mouth when I knew. That’s when I fucking knew it.

“Reduce it all to ash.”

Do you remember that shit, Cory? That’s… that’s what it always said. It was like a fucking mantra. That’s when I knew it wasn’t Sarah lying beside me in that bed every night – not really at least. It was that thing inside her, wearing my wife like a fucking suit. When I sent Joey to live with my folks, it knew the jig was up. That’s when the mask came down. That’s when it gave me that ultimatum.

It wants me to defeat you. It wants me to take your belt and have its puppet at the top. It’s been watching me and waiting – maybe even since before I ever met Dune. Fuck, maybe it’s what brought us together. I don’t know why me, but it wants me. It’s been trying for years – I guess that’s what these seizures and headaches have been: it trying to get in. And when it couldn’t have me? It took her. It took her to hold a gun to my head and make me do its dirty work.

And when I thought about it? You should have been the perfect guy for me to be forced to fight because we’re friends. I thought you knew me, Cory. I thought you’d look at what was happening, how I was acting, and know that there had to be more than this. I thought you’d be concerned. I thought you’d read between the lines. Fuck, I tried to drop as many hints to you as possible. I had to play up a part – yeah – but it would have been… well… “displeased” if I did anything else. I had to put up a front – but that’s why I thought you’d be the right guy to face. I thought you’d see through it, Cory. I thought you knew me well enough. I thought you could help me.

And… I guess I was wrong.

And if I’m being honest, Cory? That fake hatred I displayed for you ever week started becoming real. Life began imitating art as you were all too fucking gleeful to lose your mind and slander my name. And fuck you for that, Cory! In fact, fuck Kaz and everyone else who’s leaped against me at the drop of a hat! Fuck every single one of these supposed “friends” or “family” I had that seem all too ready to accept that I’m just a psycho. And double fuck you for all the “midget” and “misogynist” shit you’ve been calling me. Is this how you really felt? Is that all I’ve ever been to you?! I’ve got my wife on the line, man; I’ve had to do this shit. What the fuck is your excuse?

And just like I’ve had to say everything, I have to beat you. I have no choice; don’t you get it? You, Cory, don’t have anything you can lose. Your father is immortal. You are immortal. But I’m not like you. Sarah and Joey aren’t like you. We can die, Cory. We can be gone. Forever. And that’s it for any of us – poof! Bye-bye! That’s it, show’s over! I don’t have the luxuries you have! I don’t even have the luxuries Dune or Kaz have. I just have us. And all of that is being taken from me because I gave up everything to help someone. Goddamnit, I – … I just wish I knew everything meant everything.

I have to beat you, Cory. And at this point, I’m starting to think I want to beat you. God fucking dammit, Cory, why couldn’t you have kept your cool? Why couldn’t you have been the hero we all thought we were? I needed you! I trusted you to see through me! Goddamnit Crow, you think you’re so fucking smart, but you couldn’t even be bothered to read between the lines! How many times did I have to beat you over the head with “reduce it all to ash”? How many times did I have to pull some new crazy thing out of my ass, hoping you’d stop and question it? Do you think people really just change overnight like that? Do you really not trust anyone? Fuck you, Cory. Fuck you for getting lost in your own little world with Buddy Roman whispering in your ear! Fuck you for becoming a completely different man than the one I knew! Fuck you for maybe having never been the man I thought you were at all! That… That is why I want to beat you.

I have… I have no choice. It’s her or you. You know what I have to choose. Maybe it won’t be enough. Maybe it’ll sit me on the throne like its puppet dictator to keep tearing through UCI. Maybe it’ll keep that gun to my head by keeping it to her head. But I have to try. I have to.

It’s getting to me, Cory. I’m starting to hear its voice in my head louder and louder every day. It mocks me. It looks at me with those dull blue eyes and it makes the same fucking pouty face she makes and it talks in her voice to me. It’s taken everything – my friends, my wife, my son, my family. I’m so close to breaking, Crow, you can’t even fucking imagine. What’s that song? The one that Led Zeppelin does? “If it keeps on raining, the levee’s gonna break?” I’m breaking, man. I’m fucking breaking.

This ends on Sunday. I’m putting everything on the line. I’ve been working my way through the ranks so I could get back into the right shape for this match. I’m going to give you everything I have: my anger, my pain, my loneliness, my demons. Fuck, I’m going to give you my love, man. This is double or nothing for me. I can’t fucking lose. I wish I didn’t have to do this to you. My hand was guided to plunge the knife in your back.

I’m selfish. I’m fucking selfish because I’m placing myself above you, my friend. My brother. And sometimes I sit up at night, and I’m starting to believe the shit it has me saying. I’m starting to really think the world is against me. I just hope you hear this and maybe understand. I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t want to betray you. I didn’t want to dethrone you. But I have to. And I’m going to.

I’m sorry, Cory. I’m so fucking sorry.

beeeeeeeeeep

---

Court Street
Lincoln, NE
February 13, 2007

Laying on his back, staring up at the cracking plaster of the un-air-conditioned bedroom on the top floor of the meager little house, Howard’s arm curled tightly around the shoulders of his wife. Her hand lay across his chest, her fingers lightly clutching the white cotton undershirt he wore and her thumb and index finger lightly turning the silver crucifix necklace that lay splayed across him.

Sarah Black: I don’t think you’ve taken that off since I’ve given it to you.

Howard laughed lightly, turning his face to plant a delicate kiss on her forehead.

Howard Black: That’s not true. I’d hate to wear it in the shower; it could start rusting.

Sarah Black: Does silver rust?

Howard Black: I don’t know. You’re the one getting a BS; you should have the answer to that question.

Sarah Black: I’m a biology major, not a chemistry major.

Howard’s left hand fell to his pocket, sliding his smart phone from his jeans and raising it in front of his face. Opening Safari and pulling up Google, he punched in “Does Silver rust?” and hit “Search”. After a moment, a list of results pulled up before him. Opening the top answer, a Wikipedia article on “Tarnish”, his eyes scanned over the words.

Howard Black: It says that silver does not rust in the traditional sense – tarnish, unlike rust, only affects the surface.

Sarah Black: So this means you’ll never take it off again?

Howard Black: I mean, I still take it off when I sleep. I always worry it’ll get tangled up and strangle me.

Sarah Black: Just imagine the irony of the headline: “Man Killed By Object of Salvation”.

Howard Black: I mean, just because it’ll save my soul doesn’t mean it’ll save my life.

Sarah laughed and snuggled tighter against him, the fullness of her bulging abdomen – swollen with child – hugging his side. Howard’s hand came to rest on it, lightly stroking her skin through the taunt black camisole she was wearing.

Howard Black: It’s amazing how big he’s gotten. Christ, how long ago did you learn you were pregnant?

Sarah Black: Well, I think it was mid-September when we conceived.

Howard Black: Midterms?

Sarah Black: Nah, had to be before. Though that Midterms sex was good.

Howard Black: I hoped you’d think so.

Sarah Black: If that gave me twins, I’ll kick the shit out of you.

She playfully punched him in the chest, a wide grin spreading across both of their faces. Howard’s eyes looked up to catch hers before going back down to her womb.

Howard Black: So it’s been, what, eight and a half months?

Sarah Black: About.

Howard Black: He’ll be here soon, no doubt.

Sarah Black: Yeah.

The room went silent as Howard’s eyes drifted up to meet hers. Her big, beautiful, bright blue eyes looked back at him through a faint film of water, her smile twitching and trembling as the first tear pooled in the corner of her eye and slid down her cheek. Howard turned his head in surprise, his smile falling. His voice was soft and gentle.

Howard Black: Hey… what’s wrong?

She sniffed, her hand coming up to wipe the tear away with her thumb as she shook her head.

Sarah Black: No, nothing. I’m just…

She choked back another tear, sniffing hard as emotion flooded her face.

Sarah Black: …I’m just so happy. I mean, it kinda sucks I couldn’t have champagne at my wedding.

Howard laughed. Sarah joined, her lips spreading open even wider into a grin even as tears continued to stream down her cheeks.

Sarah Black: But this is all I ever wanted. To be with you and have a family. And I just…

She paused to choke back another sob of emotions, her hand coming up to wipe away more tears, smearing her make-up upon her palm and eyelids in the process.

Sarah Black: …I just never thought I’d be this happy, and I never thought I could love someone as much as you.

He turned to face her, his arms wrapping around her shoulders as he leaned in to pepper her face with kisses. Her arms wrapped around his waist, her head dropping to nuzzle against his neck and chest. Sarah’s voice swelled and choked with emotion, her sobs audible and loud.

Sarah Black: Howard, promise you’ll never leave me. Please.

Howard’s response was quiet, his voice soft and gentle between kisses on her head.

Howard Black: I’ll never leave you. Never. I’d fight the Devil for you.

Their arms tightened, tears now budding in Howard’s own eyes as his focus remained on the woman in his arms.

Howard Black: Everything I do, I do for you. Every side I’m on will be yours. I don’t need anyone else in the world. Just you. And him or her.

His hand went down to her womb once more, gently massaging the firm, bulging abdomen.

Howard Black: This is all I need. And no one will ever, ever take you two away.

From a rooftop across the street, a Jackal-Headed Man watched.

---

Nebraskaland Motel
Rushville, NE
7/26/16

Howard Black: You’ve always been there, haven’t you? Like, it wasn’t when I met Dune or joined WCF or anything, huh? That creature you present yourself as – wolf, fox, jackal, whatever – you’ve always been watching me. Maybe it was a coincident I crossed paths with Dune; maybe it wasn’t. Maybe you guided me to him or there was the sort of subconscious commonality which brought us together. But on the other hand, I think you’d have been around and fucking with me even if I never met Daniel.

Howard sat on the bed of the cheap little motel they’d rented for the night, his hands resting on the cheap polyester bedspread with a hideous old-timey pseudo-embroidered pattern. He stared directly across at Jackal, who sat in one of the two chairs provided in the room. Jackal smiled, the full pink lips of Sarah Abelli twisting up into a wicked grin.

The Jackal: I appear in many forms. Not all are physically visible.

Howard’s eyes dropped to his lap as a wry smile stretched across his mouth.

Howard Black: That’s about what I figured. I don’t have epilepsy – they tested me a hundred times and never found a single reason to suspect. They threw me an anti-seizure medication prescription to shut me and my parents up; they had no idea why I seemed to randomly start convulsing. I used to never understand it – why I’d seem in such a haze when I didn’t take the meds. Maybe it was a placebo; I thought I had epilepsy so it steeled my willpower and fucked me up when I didn’t. But it wasn’t that, was it? It was you. It was you trying to beat the door down; see if you could just get in me like you did with Pinky or Dune’s dog or…

Howard’s eyes turned up to regard the figure in the chair, the figure of his wife staring at him with foreign eyes and a malevolent demeanor. He looked back down, no longer willing to subject himself to the sight. He sighed quietly, shaking his head sadly. Even laced with anger, low and dangerous, the linger air of resignation and exhaustion permeated his tone.

Howard Black: I suppose it doesn’t matter now, does it?

Jack waved a dismissive hand.

The Jackal: By all means, continue your prattling. If it brings you catharsis, I have no reasonable objection.

Howard scoffed, pushing up from the bed to walk over to the table next to Jack’s chair. Without looking at his tormentor, he reached for the pack of Camel Filters lying beside the provided ashtray and picked it up. Flicking open the pack, he withdrew a single smoke and place it between his lips, dropping the pack and reaching for his lighter. After lighting the cigarette, he took a long drag and withdrew it from his lips, releasing an exhale of smoke, his eyes cast out through the window to the parking lot and the road beyond.

Howard Black: So why me? I used to think it was because I stepped in to help Joe and Daniel, but that doesn’t explain why you were always around. Unless, somehow, you knew this was going to happen. Can you do that? I don’t know the extent of your power.

The Jackal shrugged, turning in its seat to kick Sarah’s legs over the arm of the chair and recline back on the opposite arms, its eyes locked on Howard.

The Jackal: I suppose I have my reasons, but I’m disinclined to divulge them to you. What’s the fun in that? You gain absolution?

Howard shrugged, raising the cigarette to take a long drag.

Howard Black: No, that would ruin the fun for you, wouldn’t it?

The Jackal: I wouldn’t be so quick to attempt to pin down my habits; I’m known to be frustrating on occasions.

Howard fell silent as his eyes continued to focus on the road outside. The clouds had grown thick and blanketed in sky in a dull, hazy gray; a flash of lightning rolled across the heavens, and Howard wondered if the rain would fall in time to douse the cool the ashes and rubble that remained of his home. It had yet to begin to sprinkle.

The Jackal: Oh, don’t be so dour, Howard: you’re at the cusp of victory. Soon, you’ll have that belt you want so badly.

Howard Black: That you want so badly.

The Jackal scoffed.

The Jackal: Don’t be thick; you want it just as much as I want you to have it. You can’t tell me that the words of Crow, Buddy, and Rabid haven’t gotten to you, can you? What about that fun little #DeleteHowardBlack bit?

Howard raised the cigarette once more, taking a drag and exhaling with a dry laugh.

Howard Black: That Rabid guy is bad news. I’m almost shocked Crow’s got anything to do with him.

The Jackal: Almost?

Howard Black: I can hardly recognize him these days. It seems like in every passing moment, the Cory I knew turns out to be someone else.

The Jackal: Of course he does; you romanticized a man in your mind without getting to know him. Everyone does it; it’s what makes people so easy to manipulate. You’re a horrible judge of character, you know.

Howard Black: Am I?

The Jackal: John Mullins Jr. the Injury Prone. Joseph Malignaggi the homicidal, drug addicted psychopath. Kaz the traitor and begrudging family man. Cory McMorris the paranoid rage junkie with an obnoxious, sycophantic manager and an evil uncle. If you consider his conduct, you could hardly believe that Cory was the hero in this story and you the villain.

Howard Black: I am the villain.

The Jackal: Are you? A man fighting to save his wife’s soul from the clutches of an evil entity against a petty undead child?

Howard turned, his eyes greeting Jack for the first time since moving to the table. He traced the lines of Sarah’s face he knew so well: her handsome cheeks, her full pink lips, her gently curving eyebrows, her thin and pointed chin. The only difference lay in those dull blue eyes, eyes far too dull to ever be hers. Howard turned back to the window, shaking his head.

Howard Black: I’ve sold out. I’ve made a deal with the Devil on a gamble.

The Jackal: The Devil? You flatter me.

Howard scoffed, raising the cigarette to take a final drag before stubbing it out in the ashtray.

Howard Black: No, I’m the villain. I accept that. I’ve betrayed my friend for my own needs. On Sunday, I’m going to take his belt after spending the month tormenting him and the entire roster on behalf of something loathsome. It doesn’t matter why I do it – I’ve fallen.

Jack smiled. His voice was low and gleeful.

The Jackal: And it’s such a long way down, isn’t it?

Howard turned from the window, looking at the two identical beds in the room. He crossed towards the far one before sitting down to face the wall, away from his captor.

The Jackal: And now you let them kick you. You’re so busy feeling sorry for yourself, I’m starting to wonder if you have the gall to pull this match off. Is this the conduct of a man fighting for his wife? Is this what a proud, devoted father and husband does when faced with hardship?

Howard stood, wheeling on his heels and pointing a threatening finger in Jack’s direction. His voice was snarled and fierce.

Howard Black: Shut up. You shut the fuck up, right now.

The Jackal: You’re pathetic. You’ve come to the edge of victory, and now you’re getting cold feet? You should be more prepared than ever. Congratulations, Howard: you did it. In a few days, you’ll walk into the ring against Crow McMorris for the UCI Championship, and now you’re doubting the steps you’ve took? Then why did you bother? Why did you care to remove Burn Out’s arm? What did you make Shadowlove pass out for, and why did you submit both Andre Holmes and Wentworth Updegraff? Why did you cast of David and ignore Kaz, Billy, and Dune if you weren’t going to follow through?

You stupid boy; I knew you were weak-willed, but this is laughable. You’ve spent a month asserting yourself and shrugging off hatred and criticism. You’ve been ridiculed, pilloried, and doubted by every member of the locker room, and now you want to give them satisfaction? Will you be content to listen to Shadowlove mock you gleefully should you decide to change your mind and take a fall? Do you think anyone will have any sympathy for you – will suddenly forgive you – because you had a change of heart? You, Howard Black, are not only pathetic but naïve. The blood is on the wall, so you might as well just admit it.

Jack spun Sarah’s legs from the arm of the chair, swiveling in his seat to sit facing Howard once more. A hungry grin spread across Sarah’s lips as Jack’s eyes burned with malevolence.

The Jackal: You’ve passed the point of no return. The bridge is burning behind you, just as your house is burning out in the middle of rural Nebraska. Your friends are disgusted with you, your colleagues loath you, and your wife is firmly in my grasp. And this isn’t even considering your son or parents who can’t, for the life of themselves, understand what’s going on or why you’re doing all of this.

Howard’s voice raised in fury.

Howard Black: You leave them out of this!

The Jackal stood, Sarah’s legs moving to cross the room and stand directly before Howard. Jack tilted Sarah’s head to the side, making her eyes widen and a thin smile cross her lips as his voice once more sank into her familiar timbre.

The Jackal: On the other hand, Howard, you’re forgetting what happens if you’re successful. If you’re successful, you will have her once more.

As the familiar voice of Sarah returned, Howard froze in place. His outstretched hand trembled before slowly gliding back to his side, and the anger washed from his face as his eyes began to mist. His mouth fell open slightly, but he did not speak. Sarah’s lips twisted into a small, sympathetic smile.

The Jackal: She misses you, Howard. She wants to be able to truly touch you again – to kiss you and hold you. Don’t you want that? Haven’t you been doing all of this – the attack and the fights and this match – for her? Haven’t you been driven less by the hatred of your enemy but for the love of your wife?

Sarah’s legs brought the Jackal closer. He stood before Howard now, staring up at him with Sarah’s dull blue eyes. The eyelids closed.

The Jackal: And when I close my eyes, you can hardly tell anything is amiss. Isn’t she beautiful, Howard? Isn’t her voice musical and soft?

Howard’s lip trembled. A fresh tear slid from his eye and down his cheek. One of Sarah’s hands raised, her palm up and her fingers uncurled in invitation.

The Jackal: Take it, Howard. I may be her mind, but it is still your wife’s body. Don’t you miss the feeling of holding her hand? Do you miss how she smells? Her arms around you?

Howard stared at the invitation, his own hands fidgeting nervously as his eyes shifted rapidly between the hand and the face of Sarah Black. He balled up his fists and turn, slamming them against the wall as he screamed out, each hit punctuating each explicative.

Howard Black: FUCK! FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!

With the last hit, his fists stayed on the wall, his head leaning forward to touch between them before his legs buckled beneath them and he slid to repose. He wept openly, his arms curling around his knees as he teetered back to fall against the bed. Sarah sat down beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder.

The Jackal: I’m not your enemy, Howard. Well, I suppose that’s a lie, but I’m not the one you should be fighting or resisting. You’ve known my wishes, and you’ve actively fulfilled them up until this point. But there are only two men truly standing in your way: Cory McMorris and yourself. Are you going to let them defeat you when you have nothing left? When you’re so close to completion?

Howard’s face raised, his cheeks stained and eyes red. His lips twisted down into a grimace of hatred and anger, his eyes fixed on the wall. Behind him, the Jackal smiled.

The Jackal: Who in the UCI is better than you, Howard? No one. You’re an animal – a monster. You’ve proven yourself ever bit more worth of the Honey Badger moniker than any star, living or dead. You’ve proven that anyone who could dare be upset with your ascent could only have paled to you in comparison. You’re undefeated; you’ll stay that way as long as you like. You could have easily taken Shadowlove in that Hardcore match and still beaten Cory handily. You’re unstoppable. You’re the Best That Never Was. Now tell me, do you have any intention of letting that go? Or have Johnny Rabid and Buddy Roman finally gotten in your head? Are you finally believing their lies?

Howard slowly rose, his eyes fixed on the wall. The Jackal rose with him.

The Jackal: They’ve laughed at you, Howard. Cory was only all too eager to abandon you in favor of more fashionable company. Shadowlove? Johnny Rabid? He’s desperate. How does he compare to you? What sort of honor has a man who consorts with such? And you? Who is the company you keep? No one. You’re nobody’s servant – save mine. You have no allegiance – save your family and yourself. You deserved this, just as you deserved it in WCF. You were the man who made the Fire Starter submit. You were the man who climbed the Unpassable Mountain. You, the only man who can see through the nepotism and corruption and sycophancy which poisons UCI like a cancer. No, Howard, you aren’t the villain – you are the counter weight. And soon? You’ll have your reward.

Howard turned, his head lowered but his eyes fixed on the face of Sarah Black. The hand raised once more, the palm open and inviting.

The Jackal: Now then. Don’t you want to feel her skin? Don’t you want to know what you’ll have once you’re successful? Not only will you have the throne, you’ll have your wife again. That, Howard, is a promise.

Howard’s eyes fell to the hand. He was quiet, his hands fidgeting once more. Slowly, he lifted one shaking hand, the tips of his fingers cautiously brushing the palm of Sarah Black.

The Jackal: Go on, take it. No tricks.

Inch-by-inch, Howard’s hand melted into hers, the fingers spreading and interlocking as he clasped the soft, smooth skin of his wife. He exhaled deeply, his shoulders relaxing as he closed his eyes, his thumb stroking the back of her knuckles.

The Jackal: Come to bed, Howard. Lay with me tonight. Feel what it’s like to have her in your arms once more.

Howard shook his head slowly, his eyes still closed.

Howard Black: I’ll never let you in.

The Jackal: I’m not asking you to let me in, Howard – I don’t want that. You will be no Dune, a physical puppet to my whim. The Howard Black who steps into the ring against Crow McMorris on Sunday will be Howard Black, in his right mind. All I offer you is the feeling you fell asleep and woke up to for nine years.

Sarah sat down on the bed, pulling the covers back to slide her legs beneath the sheets. Her hand remained fastened to Howard, and with a gentle tug she brought him to sit down on the bed beside her, his legs kicking up as he turned and wrapped his arms around her. Howard slept next the his wife that night, as he would do the night after next and the night after that, all the way until Beachmania. Each night, the Jackal smiled as Sarah’s eyes closed. The rain had finally begun to fall outside.

When the levee broke, the pain and anger of Howard Black spilled forth into UCI to drown anyone in its path. It roared in anguish, uncompromising and unrelenting as it drowned anyone in its path. The body count thus far had been four, and following Sunday, it was set to be five. Howard could not mind – not when the woman he loved was once more in his arms. But behind her own eyes, trapped in the dungeon of her own body, Sarah Black had no mouth but had to scream.

---

Hello Cory, I’m sure that you know who this is. Have we met before? I think we may’ve briefly crossed wires that time in the desert, but I don’t think there’s been anything formal. I suppose it’s only polite if I give you the honors. Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste.

Did you think I was gone? Yes? No? I’m sure it’s the former. I assume you haven’t given me a passing thought since I was pummeled into the mat at Fifteen. Hell, I’m sure you didn’t even pay me much mind when I was busy making Dune skip and hop like a dancing bear or when I tossed poor little Christian Malignaggi to his demise. Do you think he bounced when he hit the ground? I only ask because I know you’re no stranger to falling a terrible height. I suppose it’s only deliciously ironic that history will be metaphorically repeating itself this coming Sunday. You’ll fall, Cory. You’ll fall farther than you did when Bobby Cairo shoved you off that catwalk and you came to repose on the mat thirty feet beneath you. I’m speaking metaphorically, of course – I doubt Howard would have any desire to literally end your life, as much as you seem convinced. It’s funny, for a man so seemingly eloquent and versed in rhetoric and analogy, you have a difficult time grasping it when spoken against you.

But I’m getting off-topic; I was speaking of falling.

Yes, fall you will, Cory. But it will not be from any literal height, and your end will certainly not be the liberation of your soul from your body once more. Instead, my little puppet is going shove you from the height where you currently rest, and the end for you will come with a three count and a fade away to obscurity where none of us can be bothered by you. It’s merciful on my part, really; you’ve seen the end most come to in my game. But, alas, there shall be no gory demise for you. I’m saving that for someone else. Something inside me says letting you live to watch your ruin fulfilled may be a fate worse. I suppose, also, that this is far different than my usual games. He’s a tough one, that Howard Black. After the numerous failed attempts to force my way into that house of cards he calls a will, I realized there was a perfectly good backdoor. Poor Sarah; you can’t resist what you don’t know is getting in.

It’s been delicious. Sitting in Dune and hearing him scream as he watched his hands toss Christian to his fate, unable to anything, was delicious as well, of course – but this has been a different kind of delicious. After all, we can’t always indulge our sweet tooth, sometimes we need something savory. I’ve been able to watch Howard bend and break to my designs, attempting in vain to decipher my designs and find a way to foil them. Shall I tell you his plan, Cory? He gave you a call earlier he thinks I didn’t hear, but I’d like to elaborate.

You were his plan.

It was a fun little game of chess between us, really. Had Howard succeeded, I may have been impressed. A simple enough gambit, rooted in the oldest of philosophical questions: are men good or evil? When you confront a man of God, such as Howard, he tends to favor the former. To him, an attack on a man whom he had such a close friendship with had to provoke questions. Surely, he thought, you’d be suspicious. He tried to drop you hints, and even that pesky little gray man Jim Thuggin caught on, almost spoiling the surprise.

But, alas, optimism can only lead to disappointment.

No, I knew you’d never bother, Cory. When Cain struck Abel with his club, do you think Abel thought “What demon has possessed by beloved brother?” No, of course not; he thought, “That monster Abel has finally revealed his true colors.” Perhaps Cain’s hand was guided in the same manner as Howard’s, a demon with his fingers on his shoulders whispering horrors and threats in his ear as he guided him to sin. On the other hand, I’m sure you don’t have any time for theological discourse; there is a match to be had.

I can only wonder what you must be thinking now, sitting alone in whatever roach motel you’ve holed up in, twiddling your thumbs nervously as you search for “Plan B”. It’s easy enough to prepare for a disturbed man – ask anyone who’s ever beaten Danny Anderson. I’m sure you thought a disoriented, disgruntled, and disassociated Howard Black would be easy pickings. For all the brawls and the taunting, you must have thought you’d lured him into your trap; riled him up and lay in wait for him to make a mistake. Poor, poor Cory McMorris. You were so set in your designs and schemes and assurances you never connected the dots. No, Howard never fell into your trap – you fell into mine.

I won my little game of chess with Howard the same way I’ve already won it with you. It’s a win-win for me, really:

A) Howard defeats you, collecting the UCI Championship for myself and granting me a pawn who sits at the top of the company, spreading chaos and my name to amplify my power.

B) You defeat Howard, crushing his chances of reuniting with his wife in her right mind, probably spiraling him into misery and weakness, allowing me to actively get into him. You, probably being stupid enough to think Howard is the Jackal, boast of defeating me when you’ve done nothing of the sort, still spreading my name and granting me power.

Of course, that precludes you winning. You’ll have to pardon any insult when I say I have my bets thoroughly hedged against you. Truth be told, for as much as Howard hoped you’d smell a rat and follow the thread, I was amused by the prospect. It would’ve taken an even more decidedly emotional twist – wouldn’t it – as you battle for the soul of your friend against himself, torn as to whether you’re doing the right thing or not. I like a little emotional and existential anguish now and then – it warms my heart. But this was not what you did; instead you fell to your feet frothing at the mouth and twisting yourself into pretzels of rage. You failed Howard; you were blind and lashed out in anger and resentment. You made him your enemy when he truly meant his words about this not being personal. You took the easily baited hook about Ultimate Showdown and jealousy and decided that anything he could do, you could do better – including the act of being a drooling, bitter ape.

Now, you will fail yourself when you fail in this match.

A man is an easy thing to break – you can break his body or break his spirit. You can use a gun or a truncheon or perhaps a long drop for the former, and perhaps it can lead to the latter. Sometimes it ripples; when Christian Malignaggi hit the pavement, his death sent his father into a spiral of depression and alcoholism. He could not recover from the blow – even when he beat Dune at ONE, he could never summon the same spirits to repeat his performance. He’d grown soft and weak. When Dune found Chief’s head reduced to a bloody pulp and found Pinky in a coma, he dropped to his knees before me in mercy. Then when Dune watch his arm cock back and the boy flung to his doom, he turned himself so deeply inward that he could hardly see the light of his friends until his arm was twisted behind his back into submission. When a man is desperate, he’ll do anything for a little slice of what he desires. Flash turned to the aid of his most hated enemies, and Dune tore a path of destruction through the WCF.

When I took Howard from Sarah? His solace lay in defeating you.

I’ve whispered in his ear for months now, tempting him to go after you. He relented, initially; the bruising of his fragile ego was not enough to motivate him entirely. Though – if I can intimate this with you – you should have seen him writhe in his seat as I told him he deserved to hold that belt. Still, even at that he needed a little extra push: a trade-off, if you will. Who would a man choose between his wife and his friends? I’m sure you can see the results; you were never in contention. Your “brotherhood” was water, never to be thicker than blood. So he relented, setting out for Chicago to make his move. He laid in wait, pounced, and you were able to take over from there. You and Buddy Roman certainly proved more adept at getting under his skin and stoking his hatred than I ever could – I take my hat off to you.

Now, I’m sure I should answer your lingering question – why you? I could say it was the belt, which would be truthful, but there’s more to it, of course. Fire, Cory, will immolate anything it comes in contact with. Not all stories and moments are as bold and heart-warming as Tienamen Square; sometimes the tank crushes the protestor. Why did I target you? Because you were in proximity. Just as I reduced John, Joseph, and Howard’s lives to ash for their relation to Daniel, I shall reduce yours. And that’s all it is, really: I have a convenient excuse. Of course, sometimes I just do things. That’s another sort of fun. Not sweet or savory but merely gratifying.

The anger of Howard Black will consume the world in an inferno. From this blaze shall rise a Jackal, born of man’s greatest folly and destructive nature. From chaos, I rise and through chaos shall survive. And who will you be to stop me, Jon Crow? You’ve already lost our little game – you have been deceived and done more damage than you could hope to repair. You’ve been caught with your pants down, your carefully planned attack aimed at a shadow while the real armies crept ‘round behind you. Your hubris has cost you – you can do nothing but fail.

You will stand tall. You will fight valiantly against the holocaust, but in the end you will perish in the crucible. Pulvis es et in Pulverem reverteris.

You fate, my dear Cory, is sealed. When you step into the ring on Sunday against my pawn, Howard Black, you will be destroyed. On Sunday, through his hand, I will reduce it all to ash. Of course… there’s an easy way out for you…

Let Me In.