Challenge Accepted

A trait of the man called the Winter Wraith that has been quickly learned, if not accepted, is his taste for, and comfort within, the natural world. Last time we took him in as he sat lakeside in the early morning, possessed of a calm that drew even the likes of a baby deer, skittish by nature, to accept his calm gesture.

Tonight, the appearance of calm is given, but as soon as Nathaniel Cartwright speaks, we can hear in his quiet tone a certain amount of edge. But is it anger that mars his usually-gentle voice? Intensity?

Perhaps even madness?

”Chaos is the natural state of things.”

One point for madness, then.

”If you’re a fan of fictional entertainment, then you have heard the phrase about chaos being fair. Couple that with the belief, the observed knowledge, that nature knows how to take care of itself and will react to danger in its own way and time, and you start to wonder if all this law and order talk is just a load of bullshit to keep us in line.”

Or not?

It is nighttime when the visual half of the recording begins. The lake is in the distance, only visible owing to the size of it creating an open area devoid of trees, visible through those bordering it. And the stars… oh, the stars. Without streetlamps and unnatural light to blot them out, the sky is filled with them. Countless. Overwhelming. A constant reminder of how small and insignificant we really are.

And Nathaniel? He’s up a tree, perched on a broad branch, leaning back against the trunk. Black sweater, well-worn blue jeans, black boots. Basic. Simple. Like the view. Like, in a way, his message.

”Victory I was not my time and that is that. Civilization, if you want to call it that, has conditioned most of us to have a right-here, right-now mentality… we need and we want, we take and we take… grasping at more and more, be it trinkets or money or whatever else because we’re inundated with this notion that he who has the most crap when he dies wins.

Except that you’re dead. So you didn’t win.

In wrestling, this takes the form of championships, trophies, some nebulous notion of superiority and more. Perhaps a fine lady to have on your arm. Maybe a shirt with something quotable or an action figure with a bouncy head that looks vaguely like yourself. These are the prizes we grasp for. They tell us that we have arrived. That we are important. People should watch us and those running the show should shower us with opportunity because we bring them ratings and money and blah-de-fucking-blah.”

His head shakes a little, unruly hair falling before his face. An impatient hand brushes it away and Nate tilts his head back, gazing up at the sky through the leaf canopy.

”People warned me about the materialism of wrestling, how it was like slow-moving poison coursing through your veins long after the death via snapped neck of the snake who pumped it into you. They weren’t wrong. It is not the same as acting. It certainly is not the same as the free life that I am used to living. But therein lies the challenge, no? Can a person succeed in wrestling without sacrificing themselves? Is there a way to rise to the top without becoming a slave to opinion and perception?”

He chuckles dryly, pulling something from behind his ear and putting it between his lips. A scrape of his thumbnail ignites a match and puts flame to the end of the object, for a moment showing his features clearly in the flickering orange glow.

Then it is gone, the only remnant a plume of blue smoke, then two more sent out through his nostrils.

”Challenge accepted.”

It can be felt, his turning toward the camera, his ever-intent stare locked on those watching though he cannot directly see them.

”Victory 1 was not my night. But there will be many other nights. Victory 2 is one of them. Lesser in terms of stakes, but also simpler. Two warriors, one victor. Or in the terms I choose to apply, one hunter, one meal, one step closer.”

And there’s a faint, unnerving smile to go with that stare, locked behind a glowing ruby at the tip of his cigarette.

”One cannot be a hunter forever. We catch, we kill, we feed and we move on to the next course. That is our nature. But there will come a time when the hunter is hunted. And the test is in how they react. A hunter that studies their prey and uses what they learn, applying it to themselves, increasing their effectiveness? They will last far longer. They will not sunder the food chain or change the flow of nature, but they will rise beyond their limits enough to be remembered, revered… and feared. Death is inevitable, inescapable. But marking your place in memories forever? Not even death stops that.

No, death is not an occurrence we have to worry about in wrestling. At least not a common one. But the lesson still applies: make your mark, and it will remain even after your career is done. Even a neophyte like myself knows this. Do you, TJ?”

He waits, as though expecting an answer. Then...

”Fly to spider… to frog, to snake… to hawk and finally to human. The food chain. Some creatures even hunt us humans. I wonder, TJ: where do you think you sit on that totem pole of hunter and prey? In wrestling, it might go something like… rookie, veteran, contender, champion, legend. So I ask again: where do you stand? Perhaps you are thinking you are the hawk because of your affinity for taking to the air? Be careful with that, because the higher you place yourself, the further you have to fall. I am the example of the savvy hunter and difficult prey in equal measure. My path toward proving this began at Victory 1. It continues at Victory 2. With or without your consent.”

Turning, he sits with his legs dangling off the branch, then tips over backwards. He lands in a crouch on a lower branch, hands out to brace himself a moment after landing, before he drops the remaining distance to the forest floor, landing about as soundlessly as humanly possible.

”Don’t worry if you can’t answer the question, TJ. I will help you find the answer.”

Rising to full height, Nathaniel walks out of the brush, still puffing lightly on the handmade cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, though now he takes it between index and middle fingers, exhaling another fragrant plume.

”I almost admire your confidence, TJ. Almost. But frankly, you’re just a little too proud for my tastes. I believe in humility, knowing what oneself is capable of and using it to my best advantage. You believe in talking a good game and hoping you can back it up. THe experience advantage is the only advantage you hold over me and, frankly, that is not enough. Your mad claims of walking out with the win without knowing anything more about me than you can find on the internet within the first few lines of a Google search? Little more than the piercing cry of the fearful, they who hope to intimidate by volume yet know, deep in the back of their minds, in the pits of their souls, that they are already doomed.

I see you, TJ. You do not see me. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how this ends.”

A step is taken back, a move into a crouch… and Nathaniel might as well be part of the underbrush, for if we did not know he was there, we would not be able to see him. Nor would the nocturnal mammal that scampers by moments later, digging its nose into the brush and night soil not inches from where Nathaniel rests, before darting off to follow its nose.

---

”Movin’ up in the world, Nate?”

In the back room of Adrenaline, a well-known tattoo parlor in Montreal, Nathaniel is kicked back on a battered-but-comfortable sofa, an X-Box One controller in his hand. A plain white tee clings to his muscular frame, his unruly hair pulled back this evening. Otherwise in black Dickies and tan Timberlands, the Winter Wraith is very much into the game. So is the person talking, though… a fellow who’s a dead ringer for a younger Glenn Danzig, except with longer hair, many more piercings and a couple face tattoos. He’s got the other controller in hand, quizzing Nathaniel…

”If that’s what you wanna call it.”

”Don’t be so glib. Tell me what’s up! People at the shop been askin’!”

...and based on their respective positions and a quick observation of the game playing out on the 55” flatscreen set hanging from the heavily-painted wall in the middle of the front portion of a surround sound system and above a shelf with several piercing and tattoo albums?

This Danzig-looking fellow is trying to distract Nate. However...

”Acting, working on the house, wrestling, making out with my massively-hot girlfriend. What’s more to be said?”

”KILLER COMBO!”

...based on the wince plastered across Danzig’s face as Orchid goes sailing across the screen, swatted aside by a near-feral Sabrewulf? That attempted distraction is a failure. He makes a comeback, though.

”You know people want more than that. Serious deets, bro. I mean, we’ve all watched Afterlife, and you’re a boss on that show, no question. Me, I just want to see the house. And, no lie, another glance at your lady.”

He is purposely mindful with his tone when saying the latter. Nathaniel noticeably smirks, but his eyes narrow pretty sharply. Moments later, in fact…

”ULTIMATE!”

...Saberwulf splatters Orchid and Danzig’s head drops, shaking while he laughs.

”No disrespect, bro. But you’re right about her: her smile lights up a room. This wrestling thing, though… we don’t see much of you here already. I guess it isn’t so much what you’re doing as it is… we’re hoping you don’t forget about us, y’know?”

”You know better than that, Mitch. Trust me: I’m not going anywhere. Wrestling is a blast, but it won’t make me forget who I am. Who knows, maybe it’ll drum up business.”

”Hell, Afterlife does that! You got no idea how many Miles Wright fangirls show up here for ink at least slightly related to the show! If you were here to ink ‘em, they’d probably pass out!”

”You mean I could work in peace? Glory be!”

The two old friends laugh at that comment, Nathaniel getting up and going to the battered, bumper-stickered, magnet-laden fridge on the other side of the room, grabbing a couple Labatt’s and tossing one to Mitch, who catches it. They twist off the tops, clink the necks, and take a long swig from their respective bottles.

”Nah, I get it, though. Y’all ought to come see a show. It’s a trip seeing it live, man. Nothing like watching on TV.”

”Think you’ll ever have shows up this way?”

”If we get big enough, why not? We’re only two shows in, though. The bosses are always around, but I don’t ask about business. Just who am I fighting and leave the rest to me.”

”Like that TJ guy upcomin’? No offense, dude, but he sounds like a fuckin’ dork. You better not get beat by him.”

Snorting, Nate takes a long gulp from the bottle.

”You realize this is my second match fuckin’ ever, right? I mean, I’m doing pretty good for a start, but almost everyone there is more experienced than me. If I can get through it without looking stupid, that’s win enough.”

”The way you talk when the camera is on, though… that’s scary shit, bro. And you gotta tell me: was that a real fuckin’ deer, man? Just walked up to your ass like Bambi don’t fuckin’ exist?”

Grinning now, Nathaniel takes a slower sip this time, eyeing his friend.

”Come on, man! Tell me! That’s been bugging me for days!”

”This is me you’re talking to. I’m zen as fuck.”

”That ain’t no answer!”

But Nathaniel just laughs, and eventually Mitch does, too.

”Ah, fuck you, anyhow!”

”Love you too, asshole. One more game?”

Setting down the mostly empty bottle, Mitch grabs up his controller and tosses Nate’s his way.

”Yeah, least till the bell rings, right? But no more fuckin’ Sabrewulf!”

”Hisako it is.”

”FUCK! That bitch is even worse!”

Seemed like no one was out looking to have steel rammed into their flesh or several hundred dollar doodles with their back as a canvas that evening. But Nathaniel and Mitch were making the quiet work for them regardless.

Well… Nathaniel was.

”COMBO BREAKER!”

”FUCK!”

The laughter of the Winter Wraith closes out the moment.

---

”Do you have an answer yet, TJ?”

It is night again, with some moderate rain coming down. Neon signs above on the building against which Nathaniel leans offers some gaudy, if dim, lighting to shine down. Considering he’s under an awning so as not to get drenched, and to make sure his cig doesn’t get an untimely dousing, viewers should be thankful for that much. But the man is still practically a shadow against a shadow.

Wraith, indeed.

”Honestly, I don’t think it matters. What you think about your placement is irrelevant. Where you actually are on that totem pole… is likewise irrelevant. I know what I see and hear when you’re in front of a camera. Prey. Meat.

A child who thinks it is a man. Do you think perhaps that is a little bit harsh? Then you are welcome to show me the error of my ways when we get in the ring. The experience difference between us for most people would be enough to convince them to put money on you coming out with the win. And maybe you will. That’s how chaotic wrestling is. If it were to happen, it would not bother me for more than a moment. After all… I’m the green-as-grass rookie. So if you want to be real? The pressure is on you. The onus of performance. As if you needed more pressure, right?”

A chuckle, then a pause to flick a few ashes from the end of the stick. A simple jacket with a furred collar worn over his t-shirt, seemingly more for style than warmth.

”I am far from worried. After all… you don’t see me. You never have. And you won’t until the penultimate moment of our battle, TJ, where there will be two choices open to you, choices that you will not consciously decide between. No, your instincts will decide for you. I hope for your sake that you are honed. Because that moment will tell the entire tale succinctly, within the space of a few moments.

Either you move in for the kill…”

He brings up an open hand, nothing within it, and stares at the camera. A moment later, he snaps his fingers so sharply it could almost be mistaken for a gunshot.

”...or I break you down and leave you for the scavengers.”

The smile evaporates like the smoke rising from his cig.

”That is the difference between us. Your instincts will betray you when the time comes. I will already be in motion. You will blink, and the moment will be gone. Then I will take hold of you like a roadrunner snatches up a rattlesnake. A twist, a leap… and you slamming down on the canvas at a nasty angle. Twice if necessary. Until you stop moving for three seconds. Only when your eyes open again will the weight set in.

Too late. Always too late.”

Taking one last drag, Nathaniel flicks the last dregs of the cig into the gutter where the water sweeps it into the sewer.

”See you soon… prey.”

Fade to black.