Suppose this is the part where you all patiently await me telling you Why, right?
Why, Matt?
Why would you let that happen to Amber?
Why Didn’t you stop it?
How could you stand there and watch?
Well, right off…..you don’t deserve the answer. None in either division, not her husband who suddenly cares, not my opponent in Max Burke. None. No One. Not a single soul in the back.
Why not? Because you didn’t give a shit when you could have actually done something, and I will not further enable your false grief and outrage. Not when I have to carry this company out of the era of foolishness and factions serving little more than the egos of their ‘leaders’.
Like any of you were fit to lead a dance routine, let alone a group of fighters…
But none of this is news to men like me or my opponent this week, Max Burke. The good hand they’ve given a shot to because I can’t leave well enough alone and have something to prove, if only to myself.
Former roulette champion, a known face in the ‘Underground’. You read like every side character in a TV show that droves of fans with too much time on their hands attempt to flesh and further, if not assign some made up grandiose purpose to explain away your decided mediocrity.
How unfortunate for you that they won’t be in that ring to support you on this night, Max…
But for whatever consolation it is, i’m sure they’ll write you as the top in their erotic retelling of our fight.
Do you suppose the man who made the Marionette knew what he was doing?
As far as creating the metaphor for lack of control that he did so skillfully?
He’d had a three month tryst with a woman known as Marionette once. A whole sordid affair where he had busted up an arranged marriage because he got a moral hair up his ass. She was a coworker and remained a friend even now.
At least some things worked out for the better with his salacious appetites.
A slow exhale rolled from his nostrils accompanied by the noxious fumes of yet another Camel non-filter. The burn in his throat doubled after the attack by Mac Bane in what was supposed to be his first title defense for a World Title he never intended to pursue. A notion he kept to himself mostly, as the sycophants in the peanut gallery didn’t need any more ammo to use on him.
A bitter chuckle rolled from his chest if only briefly.
Fucking fools. The lot of them.
He had no doubt that a lot, if not all, of the locker room sincerely respected Amber Ryan. Less than the number that feared her and a far smaller number than the ones who could honestly profess love for the hurricane painted Red.
His own feelings for her had gone through a year’s worth of changes akin to the seasons if only a bit more violent. He had been infatuated, had revered here, even thought at one point that he was in honest, mad love.
Then the truth bit him as he fought his solo war to keep her head above water. The crushing, gnashing reality that she would never, and could never, return whatever affection actually lay within him for her.
Idealism ripped away like a pair of rose colored glasses, revealing the truth he couldn’t accept even as it sunk it’s teeth in deeper than almost any other wound he’d ever had inflicted upon him, or had inflicted upon himself.
She kept him around as a convenience. Another accepted part of the existed she drifted through. Was it malicious? Likely not. Did he begrudge her? Annoyingly, no. Did it remove the guilt of his hand in all of this?
No, but it certainly made everything less comfortable…
He shifted in the fancy office chair he occupied, dressed in a dress shirt and his boxers. He’d asked not to be disturbed, burying and insulating himself deep within the brick structure of his school. Avalon had quit coming to lead classes, and with PWV taking up so much time along with the arrival of Hikari and the impending arrival of the twins?
The world was getting too big to manage. The man was starting to dwarf the fighter.
And he had begun to feel all the scars and wounds the fighter had collected for him over the years. Or, as his daughter Alix had so eloquently put it “You’re operating at eighty percent the level you were when we met, Pater.” The soft voice ringing through his head brought about the lone smile of the hour.
His eyes shifted across the way to the display case where his three current titles gleamed back at him. The SCW World Heavyweight Championship sat in the middle where once the PWV title had been, but now was in his study at home. A piece of history he’d never let out of his sight again. The golden validation to his journey back from the dead, and the floodgate that opened to let the other bits of validation rain down upon him.
TPW Tag titles with the late Amber Ryan, Total Anarchy Title in Uprising, the TV title in IWF where he had set records for defenses in less than six months..
He knew deep down what it was even as it was happening. That last great brilliant flash of light before the everlasting, cold darkness of eternity. A darkness he now swore he saw creeping in from every corner of the room, only for it to dissipate when he dared shift his eyes toward it. Like a specter that only served to confirm his further loss of sanity.
He reached a hand up to his throat, the soreness from his battle with Mac brought a swell of anger from deep within. Not at losing the fight, no. That happens and Mac was more than capable. As evenly matched foe if he had ever had one.
Still, even then…ever since Zenith. He felt it…
A quick exhale, removing the thought from him via lung power. He stood from the desk, stopping to wince gingerly as he crossed the room to the display case, a hand reaching out to rest upon the glass that encased the belts. He stared into the reflection that only stared back from within the golden surface.
All he saw were the crows feet in the corner of his eyes. The gray in his three day beard. The gray in his hair. The deeper line in his forehead. Glasz eyes that didn’t burn, but only seemed to acknowledge.
He saw weakness.
Weakness that would only put him in the ground if he didn’t do something about it.
His mind wandered to the loss to Angel Blake in IWF. His first in the company. His knee had given out, as it had so many times lately. Far too many. To the point where his killshot finisher, the one that was supposed to close the door and seal the deal started to feel more like a liability at worst, and a gamble at best.
No big deal. Just go back to the Katahajime…
…Until your grip and arms start to give out…
Fine, just make it a striking finishing move.
Oh, so you’re Ulf now? Lame.
He let out a frustrated grunt, standing in the stillness of the quiet room for a moment, hand pressing harder into the glass case before a second sound of frustration escaped him, far quieter than the crash of the display case as he toppled it to the ground. He snapped his eyes shut, an trying to focus on his breathing as he felt his chest tighten and the world white out in an expression of his rage.
He had to come to terms, and accept it.
Evolve…
Until he died.
I don’t like recycling insults, but honestly? Even with the pieces of other languages I know? There are only so many words to tell the same story over, and over, and over again Mr. Burke.
Stop me, if you’ve heard this one:
There are only two types of fighters who stay active into their forties:
Those that have to, and those who Can.
Obviously, given the hardware and record for the year I am firmly planted in the latter and intend to remain planted there like a tree that has seen time and history pass it by, remaining stalwart and committed to its continued existence in defiance of mother nature’s wrath and father time’s endless march.
You? You belong to the first category.
But, why?
Suppose I could act like I know you, but let me preface this with saying that these are simply my assumptions and should not be taken as the gospel, even though they ought to.
You’re still chasing something. Still waiting for that one in a million chance that all the history that says otherwise about your place in the food chain? Is wrong. You’re still chasing that defining moment that lets you be at peace with it all, deem what you’ve gone through as ‘worth it’.
Worth the state your knees are in.
Worth the headaches that keep you up at night.
Worth all the times you had to live with a failure that only seemed to dwarf the last few.
God, if this were a movie i’d root like hell for you. I promise you that I really, really would be. Hell, I’d even be pissed at me for what i’m going to have to do…
Because this isn’t a movie, Max.
This is real life…
…or, you know, something like it.
In this less forgiving land of only harsh reality? There are no heroes, and they have no journey. No matter how desperately so many of us want to assign that role to themselves, present company included.
There are no villains either. No pure evil, or good.
Just reality. Harsh, unforgiving, and fair.
Like the Bombshells Roulette Champion, eh?
So Max, while in that gorgeous piece of cinema you put me down for three, the girl you love comes running down to celebrate with you and your estranged son forgives you? On the next Episode of Climax control you will know Raze, and Ruin. You will become far too intimately involved with pain. Physical, Mental, and Emotional.
I won’t use a crowbar, but you’ll wish I had.
You’ll wish for any excuse to make it go away, when i’m done with you Max. Because I’ve decided that now is as good a time as any to send you out that bright red Exit sign at the end of your career. Or at the very least, give you a firm nudge in that direction.
The air he sucked in felt like it was made of microscopic particles of razor wire and glass. His lungs protested being given the life affirming breaths as he desperately sucked them in, body laid in a heap against the shower wall as he let the near molten water beat down upon his flesh. Glasz eyes squinting through a coarse and coursing pain, the microscopic blades that filled his lungs finding their way through every muscle and joint on him.
Another round of title defenses that felt different than the rest. Of course, the opponents were of only the sort of caliber you get when a title is on the line, and the wrath they brought with them was always uniform in its ferocity and varied only in how well managed said ferocity was.
When he was younger, even months younger, he felt more than capable of countering these strategies on the fly. Even going as far as toying with them, letting them think it was working before flipping the table onto them and beating them to death with the chair they had been seated in, left a fool for having ever tried.
That was when he had been winning these matches.
Lately?
Lately, it felt more like survival than victory.
He raised his face to meet the water, letting it slick back hair that he hadn’t bothered to touch up, streaks of gray showing through as the water pressed it down to cling to his scalp. A sigh rolled from his lungs and out his nose slowly, the decompression and focus on the water beating down helping to center him and push the pain aside.
Machines. Monsters. Cowboys. Egomaniacs.
And now, a reflection of who he could have been had fate and luck not been quite as kind to him as it had been.
A slow inhale and another slow exhale as he heard the door to the washroom open but didn't move a muscle in response. He knew it was her.
The only her who would encroach on his private moments of self reflective misery.
"I promise, I'm no crazier than when you last saw me my dear."
“That’s not saying much, you do realize this?” She couldn’t help the small single amused chuckle that escaped. A tired, sore, battered and bruised arm lifted to push the curtain aside as he switched the stream to allow the tub part of their shower to fill. Tired glasz eyes found their last bit of sparkle for her, as they always did.
Marika Knox. His second wife, and the mother of three of his children. Although two were still ‘in processing’ as he liked to joke to her bemused dismay.
“Of course I do, just as I realize even if it was a lie and I’d gone completely mad that you would still be there for me, just as I would for you…”
“Truer words, as they say.. However, since it’s been longer than your usual time spent in the depths, I thought it best to see what’s become of you now.”
He smiled, reaching out to her and gently taking the hand that had only ever been gentle to him, bringing her closer so he could press his forehead against the inviting surface of her. He desperately sought the comfort of her warmth as another sigh left him.
“I think it’s fast approaching the point in time where I no longer have a choice…” he said in a hushed tone from behind closed eyes and with his face buried in her forearm, daring not even look upon the room he had just admitted mortality to. His confession and state were met with simple hushes. Soft, same as the embrace.
“The time will just lead you to another chapter, one you’ve been ready for a long time now. You just have yet to see the potential. Beautiful, stubborn fool.”
He chuckled slightly, pulling away from her forearm to find purchase in the crook of her neck, breathing deep the scent of raspberries as he let out a low grunt and with little regard for what may have been in her pockets, he leaned back to pull her into the warm water with him. Both arms coming up to lock around her in a tight embrace as he prepared for what little resistance she might muster.
He’d traverse this final jagged leg of his journey toward damnation. He would find a way through it, come hell or high water. He would crush Burke’s dreams and see this fight to the end with Masque, assure her demise…
And then, taste the freedom he never deserved.
His arms tightened around her smaller form in silence, holding on for dear life to this reality he was sure would slip away at any moment.
So here we are at the end of our journey, Max. The inevitability must be crushing you now, no? Can you feel the breath slowly being driven from your lungs?
Some would envy how close you must feel to Giles Corey.
I’ll wait for you to google that now…
…..He was another case of inevitability, Max. One you should take heed in because there is so much wisdom to it. Especially for men like us.
Giles was defiant to the ugly reality he couldn’t accept. He fought like hell and the cause? Oh my god, it was a noble one. Salem was a hellhole of a testing ground for the Satanic Panic but in an odd twist, was the testing ground that had the live ammo.
And that noble fight of his? Standing his ground and driving forward undeterred simply because he knew it was what he must do? What did it get him, in the end?
It got his chest caved in and his land taken away from his dozen heirs. I’m not so educated as to assume what happened after but I imagine being without land and ostracized from the church only leads to the darkest corners of the era, no?
So, how does this apply to you? I hear you asking.
…I mean, Really?
…No, really?
Well, alright then I guess.
Idiot.
Your career only ends one way, Burke. With the reality of life and time telling you that your strength has run out slowly caving your chest in until that fighting, roaring lion of a heart is reduced to a red stain within a bigger red stain.
You profess now that you are more violent than ever? That the Max Burke of now is a vicious animal compared to the young man he was?
Oh, I imagine so.
Feral, scared, and stupid.
Even what you were wasn’t good enough Max. And what you are? Who you are? Who you have become?
You?
Can’t stop me.
I am Raze. I am Ruin. I am the Raven, and I am the World Heavyweight Champion.
And you, Max? Respected veteran? Ageless wonder? Good hand?
How unfortunate…that all you’ve become..
Is next.
The morning sun broke the chill upon his skin as it washed over his perch on the back deck of his house, glasz eyes staring longingly at Calypso as she roared for him like always. The grey-blue of the windswept pacific ocean moved him in a way he couldn’t describe, but felt more deeply than most physical touch.
It was what he emulated, what he identified with more than he did any parental figure.
Enduring. Wrathful. Righteous. Cruel.
Fair.
A deep inhalation of salt air brought a second, more calming warmth over him, as if the hand of God had briefly passed over to assure him that he still had more left still.
At least one.
One…
One more presence?
He wasn’t alone…
“....Hello, my Songbird…..”
The sound of the whisper died on the wind…
As Hope died in his chest
