SOHO, NY ||| September 25, 2022
"I don't get why everyone prattles around Enigma, okay? He's a bore! He's a big, ugly oaf! Just think about how many more tickets you can sell with the Liberty Championship around THIS waist."Diana Tremblay's words were running through his head on a loop – maybe that's why he'd missed his usual turnoff that led back to the interstate. He was distracted and not because of the things she'd said about his appearance. He knew he was never going to be the sort that superficial women like her would fawn over but he had never had difficulty finding dates over the years. It wasn't the stab at his charisma – he knew that he didn't engage with the younger people on social media the way he should. The language barrier kept him from having that confidence in any sort of ongoing banter with peers or fans. It didn't change the fact that he still had fans. Kids always lined up for photos with him. None of those low-hanging fruit insults hurt. It was something deeper. It was the utter lack of respect in her tone, the way she looked at him as though he was nothing more than an insect to be crushed despite holding the championship for the last 183 days. He remembered that look all too well and that had left him shell-shocked, out of sorts for the match. He'd made a terrible mistake early on and it had cost him dearly.
Sanity had been forsaken over the last few months and he'd been so eager to lap up the approval, to swallow the lie that he was an equal that he'd given them everything he could. Now he felt empty, hollowed out. He felt lost and when he closed his eyes, he could feel those walls closing in.
"No," he muttered to himself, "you are still free. They have not taken that just because you have lost your LIBERTY CHAMPIONSHIP." He scoffed, shaking his head, "a trinket. Nothing more. This does not change who you are."
It was strange, he thought, that the moment his gear bag weighed less, the dark burden came crashing back down on his shoulders. He should have felt relief. He should have felt angry at the injustice of the humiliating ending – as if it heard his innermost thoughts, the ache in his junk was back but he ignored it as he shifted position, his thick fingers wrapping around the cool metal bars for a moment to stabilise.
Defeated in under five minutes, brought down by kicks to the dick. He'd been wearing a cup because he'd expected it after their last matchup. It had probably prevented something far more catastrophic, like a rupture. He'd still felt the hard plastic ramming into his more delicate areas.
The mightiest will always fall harder.He tried not to think about it and failed. Tried to ignore the headache waiting in the wings, throbbing in his temples when he closed his eyes – nope. Letting his head hang, he took a deep breath, holding it until his chest ached.
"Sir," he looked up at the sound of a voice, a few feet to his left, "we're closing soon. You've been back here for a while. Is there something I can help you with?"
"This one," he glanced at the girl before his gaze went back to the black-and-tan French bulldog that huddled in the far corner of the enclosure, sad brown eyes locked on his. "Why so far from the others? Is he…sick?"
The girl walked a little closer – scrubbed of soot and red war paint, without the ghost-white contacts in his eyes, he was far less imposing. The tattoos and shaved head made him look more like a muscled biker, just another gym rat out on a Sunday evening. There was a soft smile on her face, as she replied, "no, nothing like that. He's just a little
skittish. Doesn't really like people too much and when the other dogs get loud around suppertime, he… well, let's just say, he's not much fun to be around. Goes a little crazy. He came to us from a difficult situation, collateral damage from a relationship split and I don't think he was treated very well."
"He is available, though? Healthy? Vaccinated? Ready to adopt?"
"He is. I'm just not sure—"
She broke off when he slipped his middle and index fingers through the bars. "маленькая картошка," he murmured, "come,
little potato. Come see. I will not hurt you."
"We've got plenty of other dogs in the other room, if you're interested—"
Again, the girl stopped when the little pug got up, slowly crossing the space.
He had been here for nearly an hour, simply breathing and watching the small dog, haunted by ghosts of the past. He'd spoken softly a few times, mostly to himself but the dog hadn't seemed bothered by his presence at all and the silence that should have felt cumbersome had been more a balm to his shattered spirit. Sev remained still, breathing slowly as he kept those fingers steady. He was not afraid of being bitten – a part of him actually hoped it would happen because it was a distraction from the disappointment and shame that might as well be tattooed on his forehead. Slowly, inch by cautious inch, the dog moved closer. He was tiny and fragile, ribs visible through his clean but dingy coat. A damp nose bumped against the tip of his finger, a snuffle following as the dog pulled Sev's scent in.
"Is okay," he whispered, "you are safe now. I promise this."
The little dog shivered and then that little nub of a tail twitched just the tiniest bit.
Sev still didn't move other than to blink. He kept breathing in and out slowly, keeping those two fingers steady. The dog's eyes were focused solely on him and the two broken creatures seemed to make a connection, as if the dog knew it was looking at its kin. He'd read the words printed on the card, and had seen the words
DAMAGED GOODS scrawled across the bottom as if in warning. Perhaps missing that turn was meant to be, so that he could save this little one the way he had himself been saved. The dog pulled back a little, hesitant before it sank down on its haunches just out of reach, still staring up at Sev. Without breaking eye contact, he said to the girl, "I will take this one home. He should not be caged like this. To heal, he needs to run free… allowed to
live."
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There is a very famous song that says a line I have always found comforting – I am sure I am not alone in this. "The best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep." For two decades, I believed would be better this way, without suffering, without any prior knowledge of the moment coming. Some in this business, to go that way, would mean dropping dead in a no-tell motel with some cheap hooker and blood full of chemicals. This is the way we cope, is it not? We fill the voids with vices. To go this way would be a tragedy, I think. This business does not care about us. We are parts of the machine. We are cogs. We are gears. We are replaceable and expendable and if anyone tries to tell you this is a lie, they are deluding themselves. The time of legends has passed us by. It is nothing more than a dizzying blur of faces and phrases, new ones arriving every second. We seek to entertain but I do not think that anyone watching is amused by the antics of Jack Dunn.
Would anyone mourn your passing?
Would you haunt these halls forevermore, chasing unfinished business?
Would anyone say your name in a fearful whisper, watching over their shoulder, worried of conjuring the devil from the depths?
Sign of the cross. Ward off the evil eye. Burn some sage.
I do not like you. A part of me wishes to tear you to pieces, to leave you among the fake headstones as a lesson to those who would spit in the face of this industry. The other part of me feels pity, feels as though this is the wrong course. If I break you, if I cleanse this space with my sympathetic vibrations like Madame Leota, would you move on? I do not believe you would. Common courtesies seem beneath you. My only options here is to tears you apart, scattered to the four winds: mind, body and spirit, alike.
They will not compose songs in your honor. The eulogy would be short, funeral service sparsely attended. The days when our kind were considered legends to be missed passed by years ago. Before the big Internet boom. Before the YouTube craze. Before TikTok made everyone with a cellphone into a star. You are this type, I know. The kind who believes that likes and video views mean that you have made it. You are an insult to this business, to this company as a whole. You are lazy. You are rude. You do not appreciate anything.
Still, I would try to commemorate your passing, if I knew anything about you. Sadly, before you appeared here in PWE, before you assaulted Klayton Kross, you were nothing. Nobody. Utterly insignificant. Taking out the weakest of the herd does not make you a good hunter. It does not make you an alpha predator. It shows how weak you are. How lazy. Any beast can cull a straggler; there is no challenge there.
This is not the way to make a name for yourself. This is not the way to ensure you last. Take this from someone who has been in this business for twenty years. I have worked with men who were insidious, who were downright evil. I have seen the blackest depths of the human soul firsthand – you are nothing like them. You are a Pomeranian in a posh woman's purse – a yappy, puffed-up little thing. You believe you are dangerous because you are loud, because you have teeth and have drawn blood.
Mosquitoes can do the same, equally annoying in the aftermath. They are at least good for the ecosystem, or so I heard. You, however, serve no purpose here. I will not need to call any professional in for this, either. You do not haunt these halls. There is no menace. Just smoke and mirrors and loud sounds. A bowl of cold pasta in the dark and a Dollar Tree Halloween soundtrack. You are not worthy of anyone's fear. You are a nuisance.
You are not worthy of any more of my time beyond this. I am not excited about this prospect, but I will see this through. I will do it for them. For PWE. For this business. Silence is golden, and it is foreign. I am rarely first to fire off the verbal barrage. It is very telling now, to see you cower. You have proven time and time again just how little you care beyond your own supposed glory. You do not know a thing about me other than what the stat sheets say. This is fine. That makes it easier.
Oh, but I am a joke. I am the Haunted Mansion of the company, yes? I am silly/spooky with my painted face and my theatrics. This is a time for REBIRTH. To do that, we must HARVEST. We must cut the chaff. We must cull the diseased and sickly from our midst. This is how we grow. How we do better. You will disappear. I will still be here, backstage. I will watch. I will wait and I fill feel parts of me die off when I am idle. I am hungry and I feel at home with these spectres, chasing a lost purpose. I have found mine.
Do you know what it is?
You will see, Jack Dunn. Soon they will ALL see.
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ROCK HILL, NY ||| September 29, 2022
LJ stood in the doorway of the living room, watching her husband. He was sitting on the couch, one of her yellow legal pads propped on his lap and their new dog cuddled up against his leg. He had the movie THIR13EN GHOSTS playing on the TV, the volume down low with the captions turned on. She watched him jot something down and then reach down gently to rest his hand on the back of the pug her husband had named Gizmo.
"Sev," she called out softly, "what
are you doing?"
He paused the movie, turning to look over at her with a tired smile. "Research."
The reply was strange, bringing a laugh from her as she came into the room the rest of the way, joining him on the couch. It wasn't really shocking to find him watching some old movie. He'd been working his way through all the horror movies of the 80's that he could find; as much as she wasn't really a fan, she'd sat through most of them with him. "Okay, then. I'll bite. Are you researching the worst movies of 2001?"
He shook his head, setting the pad down on the coffee table. "No. Haunted houses." Pulling out his phone, he showed her the message regarding his upcoming match against Jack Dunn, tapping his thumb against the location listed below.
LJ's eyes went wide, a huge grin crossing her lips. "Why didn't you tell me your match was at the Haunted Mansion?!"
"I…did not know that was important."
Despite the fact that he was working for a company that held shows at the Disney parks in Florida, they hadn't yet taken the time to enjoy any of the rides. She knew it was because he was still leery of large crowds, finding the noise and the amount of people somewhat overwhelming and she wasn't about to try and pressure him. There was still plenty of time for him to experience things and every day he was coming more and more out of his shell.
"Oh, it is." She turned towards him; her face was almost glowing with joy at the memory. "Very important. Oh, Sev… you'll love it. It's been one of my favourite rides since I was little."
"Tell me why it is so special." He picked up Gizmo, holding the sleepy pup in his arms before placing a gentle kiss on his wrinkled little head. "I would like to understand why, because this is clearly not…" he tried to find the right words, glancing at the TV to indicate the movie he'd paused. Obviously, the Haunted Mansion ride and the bizarre house with ghosts trapped inside were not the same thing. He had taken things too literally once again.
"Well, let's see..." LJ said as her hand came out and scratched Gizmo behind his ears. She thought for a moment, recalling her own experiences with the attraction. "It's not your typical haunted house ride. It mixes silliness with scary. Honestly, whenever I've ridden it, I kind of forget that it is just a ride and feel like I'm part of the experience." As she spoke about her favourite ride at Disney World, her face had lit up. "When you're ready to check out the parks, that'll be the first ride we do." She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. "I think it's something you would love."
Understanding dawned over his features, bringing a bright smile with it that completely transformed his face. "Oh! Like GREMLINS." Of course, his mind went directly to the old movie that he'd recently discovered, one that had quickly become his favourite of all time. "It is spooky, ominous but with moments of whimsy – this is not an insult at all. This… this is… a gift." He couldn't contain his excitement as a small little chuckle passed his grin. "This means they understand. Twenty years, and nobody has ever. This is what I do. This… it is for the children, so everyone can enjoy." His entire spooky 'monster' gimmick had been crafted around the name, tongue-in-cheek to explain had anyone cared to examine it closely. His entire wrestling persona had been curated to make sure that they knew he was not evil, not as dangerous as his stature and outfit would imply.
LJ's smile widened as she nodded, lifting her head up. "Exactly." She leaned in and gave his cheek a kiss.
Gently, he set the dog down on the floor, feeling the pup starting to grow restless even before he started to squirm. "It is good that you understand me," Sev said, the weight of emotion in his words making it far more meaningful.
Her hand came up and rested on his cheek, the love she felt for him shining back at him through her eyes. "No," she corrected him gently, "we understand each other." She'd never loved anyone like she loved him; she'd known almost immediately that he was special. "I love you."
"Я мечта́л о тебе́ всю свою́ жизнь." He replied, "I dreamt about you all my life – never did I think it would come true. I did not think I deserved such things." Before she could contradict what he'd said, he leaned in and kissed her tenderly. "I know,
Solnyshko. I know the truth now. There is always light in the darkness because you are here. You make me feel like I can do anything. Always." He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against hers as his arms wrapped around her. "I would like to go to the park early, to do this ride… before my match. I want to experience
this. With you."
She nodded, wondering if she could speak to her father about calling in some favours, arrange some time alone in the park, just for them without all the crowds. "I'd love that more than anything."
He smiled, nodding. "Then it is settled. We will do this. Then I will
destroy Jack Dunn."
