“Maskless”
Another Hotel, El Paso, 1/22/2012
This isn’t how a human is supposed to be.
He dropped his bags onto the well-worn carpet of yet another string of hotels. The carpets in hotels all looked the same; each one might have different colors, or patterns, but they all shared the short fibers that were easy to clean. They were all extremely generic. He flipped the light on, his eyes scanning over the expected floral print bed, the white window shades, a headstand that probably had the hotel-issue bible, and the minibar. There was an old tube TV, and a radio. Skull had never understood the radio thing… nobody really listened to the radio anymore.
Just another room.
And it was just another room in a long string of other rooms. Not a place to call home, but a place to put his head down and dream those horrible dreams night after night. Just like him, each place had a past that wouldn’t be remembered, each place was just… temporary. That’s how Skull felt. Temporary. No friends except Sam Rook, who still wasn’t much a friend since he wouldn’t reveal Skull’s identity. No family that he knew of. Nothing to call his own except what he’d bought since he left the hospital. And some dog tags with no name. Some help they were. His hand unconsciously went up to the tags and he felt their comforting metal weight. It was strange, but he really liked having them, despite their apparent uselessness.
Skull kicked his bags a little further into the room and shut the door behind him. It clicked and whirred as the automatic card-lock enabled. Then the room was silent. He didn’t really want to be alone with his thoughts; after all, ghosts from the past seem a lot louder, and though he could hear the voices, he couldn’t understand what it was that they said. He looked at the black radio, taking in how cheap it was. It was a 15-dollar job that they probably sold at CVS or Walmart. He flicked it on, and there was only the soft sound of static.
Better then nothing.
Nothing, of course, being exactly what he had. He turned to sit on the well-worn bed, just to think, and felt something beneath him. It crackled light paper, and felt like an envelope. He pulled it from under the covers, and saw that it was an envelope with “John Doe” written across the front neatly in blue ink. He smiled a half-smile, realizing that it was handwriting belonging to Sam Rook. Why did he always need to be so cryptic? He couldn’t just show up here in person? The envelope had no stamps, so Rook must have dropped it off by hand. Skull shook his head; even now, he recognized that Rook meant no harm, and whatever he was doing, he was doing for a good reason. At least that was how Skull was going to rationalize it to himself. The envelope felt heavy.
Another symbolic gift, perhaps?
Skull ripped the top off the envelope and dumped the contents out on the bed. It was just two things: a letter, folded neatly as always, and a golden key. Not some nice, old, ornate key, but the kind of key one might access a house with. He furrowed his brown and lifted it, feeling the weight in his hand. Then he read the note out loud:
THE YELLOW SKULL
“Yo Skull, you want to know who you are, here you go. This is the key to your house; there are answers there. Who you are, what you are… but man, I gotta at least ask… don’t go. Just toss the key. It’s your decision, but make your choice before you head to the house. It’s in Cape Cod, Truro, MA. If you go, there is no turning back.”
Skull read it again. Then again. His lips were set firmly together; this was a tough decision. Until this moment, every fiber in his being had yearned to know who he was. He wanted to know where that desert was, who that woman is… could she have loved him? The questions came fast and furious, and he felt a little overwhelmed. He deliberated mentally for just a few seconds, and then grabbed his jacket.
THE YELLOW SKULL
“I need a drink.”
Ground Zero, Blues Club in El Paso
He’d left his mask back at the hotel. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but it was late, and very few people were out. The bartender, Charli, liked Skull, and was happy to open the place up for him. The club itself was owned by THE Morgan Freeman, and actually had good food, good beer, and great live music, during the day and during the reasonable hours of the night. Now, quiet except for the TV playing a made-for-tv sci-fi flick, it was dark and quiet. That’s just what he needed. Charli had tried to engage in conversation, but Skull had politely noted that he wanted to think. Charli had nodded, left the bottle of something about the same age as herself, and sat down, watching the film with rapt fascination.
Something about fighting… it just feels right.
It did, too. In the ring, he was beyond good. He’d known when he started that he had some hidden capability, but now, he knew that he was almost unstoppable. Steven Kline couldn’t take him down, and he knew his opponent this week would have the same fate. He flew high when he wreaked some destruction, and now that it was over, he felt low. He felt like he had a hangover, like he was in withdrawal. He’d once told somebody that fighting was like a drug, and now he was finding out that what he said was more then just words. It almost hurt for him to not be digging his fists into somebody. It felt like something was inside him, an animal or a beast, aching to get out.
And this week, it will.
It was true. They’d booked him against some one-off called Saint Patty. He’d won a few matches in his career, sure, but as far as Skull was concerned, this was a streak that he’d be happy to put down. He shivered as he thought about it; he was not a violent man… or he hadn’t been. It was all very confusing. This was a situation so far out of the norm that there wasn’t a self-help book or a website in existence to tell him how to feel. All he could do was look to Rook for guidance.
Part of him wanted to trust Rook, but it was feelings like this, feelings of violence toward others, that made Skull wonder who he was. If his past self was the one responsible for this need, this hunger for violence… maybe it would be best to know. He could make amends, put it behind him and be cured of this need for bloodshed. He reached his hand into his coat pocket and felt that gold key, and wondered what home was like.
Cape Cod
January 24th, 2012
The taxi dropped him off near the beach. This house, his house, was on the water. It was a weathered wood with black shingles, and the crash of the waves reverberated around him. The salty air brushed across his face and hands, and the occasional cry of a gull was all that broke the serenity. It was nice, but Skull thought it’d be something magical, some kind of a feeling of being home. All he saw in front of him was the traditional cape-cod house. He stepped across the sea-shell driveway, his boots crunching the shells as he stepped on them. He climbed the three or four steps to the red doorway, and stopped. He couldn’t see in the door’s window, as it was dark inside. He could make out a bit of dim light coming from a curtain being slightly apart, but that was it. The doorknob actually had a bit of wear on it that came off on his fingers as he held it.
There isn’t any going back.
There was no time for second thoughts though; he needed to know, and he had to get on a plane tomorrow morning to get all the way to Nevada. With a deep breath, he pushed the door open. Inside, it was pleasantly cool; a soft 65 degrees or so. It was dark, and Skull felt around for a light switch. His hand brushed over a dial, and he rotated it to the right, and pushed in. A bright light lit up overhead, showing a staircase in front of him, a kitchen with a slightly open window across what seems to be a very nice living room with a black leather couch. There was a 60 inch flatscreen sitting in the middle of a rather nice entertainment center as well. Skull whistled.
THE YELLOW SKULL
“Wow. I guess I did pretty well for myself.”
Skull started to wonder how he'd find out. There was documents strewn about the room, but this was just all so overwhelming... how did Rook expect him to know? Knowing Rook, he'd have set something up...
The light in the kitchen.
Skull strode into the kitchen, and pulled the heavy black blinds aside, flooding the room with light and a gorgeous ocean view from a large bay window. Skull turned around, and sure enough there was large stack of manila envelopes, a black macbook, and various documents.
Skull lifted one carefully, marked "Tax Returns, 2010." He opened it up, and looked instinctively in the top left corner.
THE YELLOW SKULL
"Damon Synn?"
What kind of a name was Damon Synn? Still, it rolled off the tongue nicely. He smiled a bit at that, before looking down to see an embarrassingly big number. He shut the folder, feeling almost ashamed as to how much money he made then, before realizing that it was foolish; that was his money after all. He picked up the next envelope, which read simply Blackwater. He opened it, and read. And read. And read. His eyes glazed over, and the smile died on his face.
I was a mercenary in Iraq. A soldier. I killed.
The thought should have disturbed him, but his face felt dead, heavy, like iron. He couldn't bend his cheeks into a frown. He set that aside, and picked up the last folder he'd need to read. It was marked "SCW History."
SCW History? But the SCW was just founded... how could this be?
He opened it slowly, a creepy feeling causing him the shiver a bit. He felt almost sick at the thought that he could now possibly be involved in some kind of Bourne Identity shit. There was a sticky note on the first page, penned by Sam Rook.
THE YELLOW SKULL
"The SCW has been open for three or so months. Don't worry."
The relief was palpable, and he actually let out a short laugh in the quiet air. It sounded too loud. He took the note off, and read the first sentence of what appeared to be a photocopy of a newspaper.
THE YELLOW SKULL
"Damon Synn, former World Heavyweight Champion in various federations, sometimes called The Monster, has extended his streak to an astronomical 37-0. Can he be stopped?"
And then, the world turned. Skull hit the floor hard, and everything went dark.
Three Hours Pass
His eyes shot open. He felt numb, as though he'd been in a deep sleep. He felt his face pressed on cold linoleum. The kitchen. The cicadas were out in full force, chirping in the crisp night air. It was cold this time of year in Massachusetts, and he'd left a window or something open. He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs.
Damn. It's freezing in here.
He dragged himself to his feet, feeling a bit uneasy. He didn't remember how he'd gotten here, but after getting back from Iraq he'd gone on one hell of a bender. That wasn't so surprising. Before he'd left, he'd got a contract offer from the SCW. He smiled a bit, his twisted, scarred face curling in a look that was very painful.
He dragged himself over to the counter and hit the light switch. Light exploded into the room, and he glanced at the calendar. He squinted and saw that he had a match coming up; the days were crossed off sloppily, so he'd been keeping track at least, but he hadn't even remembered the match. That happens sometimes. If he didn't keep a belt, or take his meds, he forgot things. He'd do things out of character, out of sorts; he'd get mad, and he'd hurt people. Or hurt more people then usual. He smiled at this thought, and looked into the hallway. He'd packed his bags; he probably had planned to get going, since the calendar said the show was in Henderson, Nevada. He smiled, noting that he'd need to give Rook a call. He hadn't spoken to him in ages.
Grabbing his cell, he set off, picked up his bags, and strode out the open door, closing it with a soft kick once outside. His big boots crunched across the sea-shells as he made his way to the two-car garage. He put his bags down, turning on his phone as he did so.
Strange, it being off.
As the phone booted, he slid the garage door up manually and smiled at his own, ugly reflection on the hood of his well-polished black Dodge Charger.
DAMON SYNN
"Well hello, beautiful."
Damon Synn tossed his bags in the trunk and slid into the drivers seat. He brought the car to life with the turn of a key, and while shifting into drive, checked his phone. A text from American Airlines asking to confirm his flight. That was odd; he tried to fly as little as possible. Loved driving too damn much. He flipped the phone up to his ear, dialing the AA number.
AA
"Hello, this is American Airlines! My name is Shelly, can..."
DAMON SYNN
"Shelly, listen. I booked a flight. Cancel it. I'll give you the number, my name is Damon Synn, don't care about no refund or nothing. I got some driving to do, a long trip, and one hell of a fight. I know this ain't your job to listen, but let me tell you something..."
AA
"Wait, like the Damon Synn?"
He assured her he was who he said he was. He gave her the ticket numbers, and she canceled them gladly.
DAMON SYNN
"Now, listen; it feels like I haven't talked to anybody in ages, so I just need to tell somebody, and that somebody is you: Saint Patty is going to get torn in half this week on Climax Control. I guarantee it."
He smiled his wicked smile, and hung up the phone. With that, he knowingly reached into the glove compartment and removed a well-packaged Edicion de Silvo tubo cigar. He popped the cap off, taking time to savor the smell of old tobacco. He cut the cap off the end of the stogie, and lit it up. As he puffed that gorgeous, luxurious smoke through his nose, he felt complete. It was like he'd been asleep for a long time, and now that he was awake, he was going to tear into whoever they put in front of him.
DAMON SYNN
"Saint Patty... I'm coming for you."
____________________________________________________________________
This is what I am offered?
I’m laughing, I know you can’t tell, but I am. I’m laughing because to be honest, I expected something a little more… challenging. I expected something with a bit more kick, perhaps a bit more flavor. I expected, to be honest, a real challenge. Someone to fight. Someone who can show me what it means to be this… professional wrestler. So far, all I have gotten is two nobodies who do not have two dimes to rub together.
Typically, they are archetypes found within the so-called “sport” of professional wrestling. They’re two men who can be found in any promotion in the world. They’re usually working the first or second match of the card, a quick warm-up for the crowd before fading off into the sunset. They work hard, this is true, but are they truly golden material? Do they display an art of craft in the so-called “squared circle”? No. They’re workman like, their hands are callused and sweaty. They have no skill, and thus, they’re merely on the roster because someone needs to fill the void.
Is that an accurate description… Saint Patty?
That is truly your name?
A walking cliché… perfect.
I bet you’re going to talk about this in a “promo”, about how you’ve got what it takes to go all the way, to beat the wrestling monster in a match of pure wits and skill… and maybe that’s true, in some alternate universe. Maybe in Earth 616 you’ve got the edge, you’ve got the world championship and you’ve got women begging for your gentle caress… but sadly, that’s not the case here, Patty. In this reality, in the reality we inhabit, you’re nothing more than a broke-back shit who is cannon fodder for the newest rising star’s push.
Did you wince? Did that sting a little? I’ve often found that when you’re a worthless wreck of humanity, that is often the case. When you’re not only flawed, but ugly as sin and lacking in any real talent, you wince at such truths. No doubt you’re going to try and bury me under assertions that you’re better than that, that you’ve got it all planned out. That your road to a particular jobber championship is all paved and merely awaiting the asphalt to harden, and you will traverse that road.
But the truth is much simpler, isn’t it Patty?
The truth is… you’re never going to walk that road to glory… but I am.
The truth is, Patty, that you’re merely the second of many to fall before my awful gaze. You’re merely a lonely hitch-hiker, a wanderer who is sticking his thumb out for any kind soul to give him a ride to the next stop, to the next resting place. The truth is, you’re walking in place, Patty. You’re still staring down that freshly paved road, and you’re struggling to take the first step. Every time you try, someone knocks you down. Someone gets in your way, someone forces you back to the back of the pack… and really, Patty, it’s a surprise you haven’t given up hope yet.
So really, what hope do you have, Patty, when confronted with these truths? What does the Mighty Saint Patty plan to do in combat? What do you plan to do when I’m staring you down in the middle of that ring, and you’ve got nothing on your side but a blank expression and the dear hope that you don’t wet your pants in frustration?
The truth is, Patty, that you have nothing.
You had nothing before I was added to this match, and you definitely have nothing now. You may think you have a faint light at the end of the tunnel, Patty, but that’s not light. That’s merely the hand of God Himself before I deliver the death-knell on your silly ass.
But… all is not bad, is it? There is still some silver lining for you. You’ll be able to say—when you retire in six months—that you were the second man to take on Damon Synn. You were the second man to be given to The Yellow Skull—excuse me—Damon Synn to break—or rather return—him into this professional wrestling business. You’ll be able to look back and say—with a twinkle in your eye—that you were proud to be destroyed by a man as dominant and wreckless as I.
Make no mistake about it, Patty, I will destroy you. It’s only a matter of time, really. So book your plans, take care of your personal affairs, because when it comes to Climax Control you’re going to be left with nothing but a broken body and a few fond memories. I’ll make sure of that.
Pleasant dreams, kiddo.
