Scene One
"Awakening"
December 31st, 2011
She reached out to him, one slender, white-skinned hand reaching. Her face... he tried to focus on her face, but no matter how hard he tried to focus on it, it seemed hazy, distant, and distorted. He was falling, and her arm was getting further, and further away. She yelled something, but he her voice fades along with her image. Soon, all there is is darkness.
His eyes shot open, deep brown spheres darting about a darkened room. There was a steady whir of machinery in the background, and a few soft lights, including a slow beeping noise coming from his side. He let his eyes adjust to the opaque gloom; slowly, the room around him comes into focus as the moonlight seems to intensify. The room is cast in a deep blue hue, and he is able to more closely examine his environment: a plastic gray chair, a sink, several jars, and a bio-hazard container. This was... a hospital room? How had he gotten here?
He sat up suddenly, brought his hands to his face. Never mind how he'd gotten here... who was he? Panic spread like an octopus' tentacles, wrapped around his body, his heart and his brain. He started to shake, his big frame wracked by convulsions. He fell back against the pillow, breathing hard; the beeping at his side got faster, the numbers on the monitor climbing in time with his heartbeat. Then suddenly, it occurred to him that if he was in a hospital, he should have a chart. He threw the covers off himself, and shifted his legs painfully under him, finally grabbing the clipboard on the foot of the bed. He looked upwards, and around, before finding a bedside lamp, a cheap industrial one with stainless steel all about, and turned it on.
JOHN DOE
"John... Doe?"
He rolled the word over his tongue slowly, as if it didn't taste quite right. And in a way, it didn't. This wasn't his real name, John Doe was the default name for a homeless person or somebody with no ID. He looked at his nails; they were clean, and neatly cut. That indicated that he was from at least a fairly well-off position in society; he wasn't a bum. His hand reached up toward his face, feeling for a beard. What he felt was bandages. As his hand explored his face, he felt many bandages; and the skin that wasn't covered by them was rough, and uneven. He shuddered, not wanting to know what he looked like; he must look like a monster.
JOHN DOE
"What happened to me?"
His question comes out in a deep, muffled tone. Nobody answers; the machines beside him whir and hum, the steady beep of his heart monitor just kept going. Slowly, he swings his legs over the side of the bed. Expecting them to be weak, he is surprised to find that he is easily able to stand. As he did, something fell onto the floor, just out of his reach. He couldn't quite make it out through the darkness, but it looked like a manila folder. Doe reached down, rethought his actions, and stood back up. He ran his hand along the side of the monitor until his fingers rubbed against a switch. He turned the monitor off, and then sank to one knee to retrieve what had fallen. It was a manila envelope, and as he turned it over in his hands, a message scrawled neatly in black magic marker appeared.
JOHN DOE
"To Mr. Doe. Open ASAP."
He mouthed the words one last time before undoing the tied-fastener in the back, and shaking the envelope over the bed. Out fell a packet of papers, a pair of photographs, and a folded-up piece of legal paper. One photo was, presumably, of him; he was standing outside, his hand to his face, a shadow obscuring from the neck-up. He was wearing a black t-shirt, black jeans, and was leaning on a black car.
JOHN DOE
"Huh. Apparently I like black."
He flipped over the photo, but nothing was written on it. The next photo was of a young man, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three. He had short, crew-cut, brown hair and was clearly a wrestler. Doe flipped it over, to find a bulls-eye drawn in black magic marker. Below it, in neat handwriting: "Boom." Doe dropped the picture, and picked up the note. He unfolded it, to see that same, neat handwriting. He read it out loud to himself:
JOHN DOE
"Dear Mr. Doe, my sincerest apologies for your accident and loss. You and I were not acquainted previously, but due to a vast body of work and a perfect resume, I would like to extend an offer on behalf of the SCW. Enclosed in this packet, you'll find two photos. One is you. The other, with the bulls-eye, is your first opponent, if you choose to accept the contract, which is the final thing enclosed in the folder. You'll find it to be industry standard, and you'll be paid small bonuses for wins. However, your contract will have one provision you will NOT find standard; I'm sure you want answers; who you are, how you got to be in the situation you're in, questions about your past, etc. I will make it all clear. You want answers? If you can manage to rise to the top, I'll answer every question you have."
Below that, the paper was signed XM. Doe held the paper, read it again, and finally, laid it down. He picked up the packet of papers, and without even reading it, turned to the last page. He grabbed the attached pen, and without hesitating, wrote John Doe on the dotted line. If this place had answers, he had to go. No questions asked. It wasn't about money, it was about the truth.
SCENE 2
"Genesis"
January 1st, 2012
Doe kills the engine to the yellow Ford Fusion he had rented. It was 10PM, and it was unseasonably cold in the usually warm city of Austin. As he opened the door, Doe pulled a black canvas duffle bag from the passenger seat and slung it over his shoulder. He closed the door, locked it with the remote, and struck off toward the darkened arena doors. He had received in the mail a key-card with his name on it, and used this to open the usually closed back-door. The hallway was still lit with buzzing halogen lights. He proceeded straight down the hallway, reading each room number until he found his; room six. The door swung open, and the lights flickered on. The room smelled like smoke; not the bad sort of stale smoke, but a strange, murky smoke that, for some reason, made Doe feel right at home. He laid his bag out on the lone folding table in the room and unzipped it. Even in the gloom of the room, with nobody around for probably miles, he spoke to himself. He had tried to stop himself from doing it, but in a strange way, it was comforting.
JOHN DOE
"And so long as nobody is around, why not?"
He reached into the bag and pulled out some black under armor, a black Everlast shirt, and a brand new pair of black cargo pants.
JOHN DOE
"If black was my color before, it's only fitting that it be my color now."
He took out a few other things; a pair of big Arrogant Bastard Ale bottles, a water bottle, and a digital camera. And then, finally, he pulled out a black, spandex mask. He pulled it toward himself, and into the light. It was a black mask with a yellow skull motif on it.
JOHN DOE
"I'm not really sure who I am. To find out, I need to become somebody I'm not. I know I can fight... I just feel it in my blood."
He pulled the mask tightly over his head. The mask fits well, and he turned to view himself in the full body mirror. At 6'10'', he was already a hell of an imposing figure. His arms were riddled with scars, probably from doing this very career; with the gleaming yellow skull mask on, he looked downright frightening, like something out of a child's nightmare.
JOHN DOE
"So; if The Mystery is the first step on my path to revelation, so be it. I am not who I was, and I am not John Doe. From now on, I'll be The Yellow Skull."
Skull walked toward the door, pausing to turn back and look at his new visage. He was very glad he wasn't his opponent. He turned the light off, and there was darkness.
"Things Come Together, Things Fall Apart"
Sunday, January 8th, 2012
Backstage, Post-Show
It was well past closing time, everyone had gone home but the cheers still rung in Skull's ears as if the show was still going on. It had been nothing like he'd imagined; when he got in that ring, he'd be nervous, confused, excited, his mind would have gone gone blank. It'd be like... like whoever he was before, had taken over his body. He wasn't living it tonight, it was more like watching a movie. It had been scary, but utterly exhilarating at the same time. He'd watched every single match match, and had seen every victory and defeat.
Skull has his black patchwork leather trenchcoat slung over one of his broad shoulders. His mask was still on, and gleamed brightly in the corridors. He passed a few of the behind-the-scene types (hair, makeup, etc.) and waved to them, basking in the wrestling atmosphere. His inner dialogue was working overtime as he though of scraps of things: maybe it didn't matter who he was? Maybe this was a good enough life? Maybe all he needed was this company? He wore a smile beneath the mask, and just shook his head. He'd sort the emotions and the details out later. For now, he was just going to enjoy himself.
As he reached his door, suddenly, he felt the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The door looked inconspicuous enough, but something was different, something was almost certainly out of place. It was almost a de ja vu feeling of certainty. He pushed the door, and sure enough, it swung open. There was no damage to the door, and Skull was certain he'd looked it. It'd been picked, expertly. Skull tapped the door all the way open with one leg, and stood on the precipice of darkness. He looked down both ends of the hall, and seeing nobody, called out:
THE YELLOW SKULL
"Who's in there?"
The darkness, as expected, didn't answer him. He stood for a moment longer, scenes from horror movies running through his head, before finally taking a step into the door. He lashed out at the wall and flicked the light-switch up. As the lights buzzed to life, he couldn't see anything amiss: no other person, no masked murderer, nothing out of place... no, it wasn't that anything was gone. Something new was there.
Skull walked over to the card-table and stood over it, peering down. He picked up the envelope and held it up to the light. It was a big manila envelope with internal bubble wrap. It was a bit heavy, and it was clear to Skull that there was more then a message inside. He flipped it over, and written on the front in neat blue ink: An Old Friend. Skull's heart skipped a beat as he read that over, twice just to make sure. An old friend? Skull knew nobody in his past except for that woman in his dream. And it was concrete that she was even from his past.
All of a sudden, the hugeness of it all overtook him. His hand started to shake, the envelop dropped back onto the table. His knees buckled, and the big man fell down with a thud. He shook uncontrollably, tears coming to his eyes. The waves of emotions, first sadness, then panic, then despair, swept over his fallen body like a tsunami. The emotional pain ravaged his body, wiping his mind blank. In the blackness of this panic attack, Skull found himself confronting the questions one at a time. It was the fear; he'd compartmentalized it, stuffed it far back in his mind. He'd refused to acknowledge the damaged to his psyche that his amnesia had inflicted, and now, he was paying for it with interest. The shaking slowly subsided. He had drooled, he realized, and slowly moved his hand toward his mouth to wipe the fluid away.
THE YELLOW SKULL
"Get up."
He mouthed it to himself, thinking it louder then he murmured it. Get off the ground. He pulled himself to his knees and the world swayed around him.
THE YELLOW SKULL
"No. I will not pass out."
He said this louder, with more resolve. He pulled himself together, and the world stopped spinning. Skull dragged himself off the ground, and steadied himself on the table. He dragged his eye-line back to the envelope, and picked it up. His hand began to tremble again, but he forced himself to steady it. He pulled the top off the envelope with a soft rip and a few pops as the bubble wrap tore. He turned the envelope upside-down and poured the contents onto the table. The first thing to fall out was a note. The second thing was a black ziplock bag, a blank black book of matches, and the final object was a silver chain. Skull picked up the note, and read it out loud.
THE YELLOW SKULL
“What’s happening, cool cat… cool cat?”
Who writes ‘cool cat’ anymore?
THE YELLOW SKULL
“…you’re in it pretty deep. Not sure if you know this yet, but that kitty cat you'll be rustling up is part of big-time money. Word among the nation is that you don’t remember who you are, either. I think you need a helping hand, and rest assured, I’m gonna be there. Sit tight, see you soon… Sam Rook. PS I got you something to celebrate early with. Enjoy!”
Now Skull had a name. A name, no face, and no more details then he’d had, but he had a name. And this guy said he’d be here soon. If he thought that Skull was in trouble in this next match, he’d probably be here this week. Skull tossed the note aside on the table and picked up the black baggy. He opened it, and dumped out a pair of cigars. He picked one up, inspecting it in the light. The wrapper was a dark brown, almost black. The band was a colorful and iconic X, with the words Fuente y Fuente on the bottom. On the cellophane, in gold lettering, “Opus X” was written. Skull furrowed his brow, set it down on the table, and picked up what he thought was a silver chain. It turned out to be dog tags.
THE YELLOW SKULL
“On…”
He couldn’t make out the whole name, but On was part of it. On… what started with On? Maybe Jon? Skull couldn’t be sure, but he had a good feeling about these. He pulled the tags over his head and around his neck.
Skull snatched the cigars up from off the table and slumped into the big leather chair he’d brought into the room. He looked at it for a bit more, and then roughly bit the end of the cigar off. The tobacco taste flooded his mouth along with many little flecks of dried tobacco leaf; he loved it, curiously; it had a peppery, leathery nuance that was incredibly pleasant and soothing. He lit two of the matches and scorched the stogie to life.
As he drew the smoke deep into his mouth and breathed it out, it swirled through he murky room. The smell was intoxicating. Skull looked through the smoke, savoring the fantastic taste the smoke left in his mouth. Things were coming together. Soon, he’d have answers.
Monday, January 9th, 2012
4:00am
Porcelain skin. She had porcelain skin, somehow still gleaming white even in the too-close, too-hot sun. There was a horrible whirring noise, like rotor blades chopping the air around him. He was falling… falling… falling… and she was reaching for him. It all slowed down to a crawl. He saw her green eyes, her red hair, her beautiful, full lips; she was an angel of the desert, for there was no other place he could be. In this desert, there was just two people; her and him. He was dimly aware that shots were going off around him. Men screamed as they died; blood making their shouts gurgle sickly. Skull found that he didn’t care. All he could see was her.
Time stopped. Was this death? Was it heaven, or a much more sinister hell? He could stair into those deep green eyes forever, but an icy feeling washed across his body. He heard a sick sound, like walking through a tub of melted human flesh, and then a voice, like a million smokers dying words:
VOICE
“Hahaha… Oh looky here, boy… looks like I’m gonna get to come out and play… Boo!”
He jerked into consciousness; from the hot war-torn desert to a warm bed in a dark room. He was breathing hard and perspiring harder. His heart was pounding away like a jackhammer inside his chest, and it showed no signs of slowing down. This dream, or maybe a nightmare, had haunted him. It had played again and again, like a highlight reel of the only memory he had. Since he’d woken up in a hospital bed, he’d only seen these images when he slept, not a variation or a different scene. Just the same girl, that same sensation of falling, night after night after night…
But that voice was new. That ghoulish, flesh-peeling voice was something he’d never experienced before. It felt more lucid then a dream, more vivid, almost tangible. Skull shuddered; it felt almost as if it was still lurking, somewhere under his skin.
As his feet swung across the bed and onto the soft carpeting of the floor below, Skull sat up and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. After something like that, there was no way he’d be able to get back to sleep tonight. He peered to his side, noting the pathetically early hour in which he’d awoken. There was absolutely nothing that he could do now. Texas seemed to close around 10:00PM. All he wanted was a drink, a smoke… something to clear his mind. Maybe he could focus on the match he had this week. Skull ran a hand through his short, black hair.
THE YELLOW SKULL
“Not much to focus on, really.”
And it was true. His match was straight forward in a very unconventional sense: a standard singles match with him and a young boy named Steven Kline. Skull welcomed that.
Skull pulled himself out of bed. He glanced out the window, deliberating his immediate course of action, before grabbing his mask off the night stand.
Mere minutes later, Skull had wrapped himself in a black SCW sweatshirt featuring Gabriel, his teddy bear Angel, Despayre, and Synn. He wore his black and yellow mask and a pair of white, beat-to-rubble sneakers. As he opened the door, he welcomed the faintly-warm air as it breathed through his mask and clothing. The weather was nothing like this in New York, in the hospital he’d been in. No, this was quite nice for January. He checked his watch: 5:00am on the dot. He pushed his legs into motion, and took off on a brisk jog. The movement, the mindless momentum, the thoughtless footsteps all really helped him think. All of the tiny bits of cognition it took to keep from tripping or running into traffic gave him a nice controlled stream of thought. He had too much to think about; and you can never have too much cardio.
The dream; Skull had gotten to thinking that perhaps it was all symbolic. He hadn’t put much stock into dream interpretation, but perhaps that was what he needed to do: find a dream interpreter. He’d been through a lot lately, and it would make sense of psychological phenomenon to manifest themselves through dreams.
He let his mind stick to that, though there were too many loose ends with that explanation. For now, a simple answer was all he needed, and truth didn’t even need to be a part of the equation. His mind wandered to the next big thing in his cognitive que: the match against Steven Kline.
Kline was going to be easy. He was a twenty-year-old with a parent complex, he was a fan-favorite, he was beloved, and he was violent. He was fearless only because he had yet to find a cause for fear; he’d yet to been in the ring with somebody capable of utterly and totally breaking him. That would be something that could be easily changed. After all, the leading cause of behaving stupid is not knowing any better.
Skull rounded a corner as the sun began to rise. He headed up a hill, past a school, his legs chugging along as his mind followed suit. He was close now. Close to the hotel he’d been calling home a day. He was as close, too, to figuring out the pain he would inflict on Steven Kline.
He reached the hotel and slowed back down to a walk. He was sweating hard; he hadn’t realized it, but he’d done a three mile jog in twenty minutes, which was faster then he’d intended. He brushed the sweat from his brow as he entered the elevator, and headed up to his floor. The brushed-steel doors slid open, and he stood face to face with his room.
Then it happened again. That feeling of the hairs on his neck standing on end: something was out of place. He froze, eying the door, peering each way down the hall. Nothing looked wrong, but this feeling in his gut was a learned instinct; in the weeks he’d been awake, he’d trusted it, and it’d served him well. Skull rattled the door handle and sighed a bit as he found it to be locked. He slid his key-card through the lock, and pushed the door open as the light turned green. The light was on, and in the middle of the room sat a black man in a white suit.
Monday, January 9th, 2012
7:00am
THE YELLOW SKULL
“So wait wait wait, let me get this straight, Mr. Rook, you know who I am, but you won't tell me?”
Skull looked at the man who’d identified himself as Sam Rook incredulously.
SAM ROOK
“Yessir, you got that right my old friend. But you don’t know why, why don’t you let me explain that first, then you can ask questions. Sound fair, cool cat?”
THE YELLOW SKULL
“Cool cat… okay, so you’re the person who sent me that note? What’s with the cigars? And what’s with these?”
Skull grabbed at the silver dog tags that now hung around his neck and pulled them out to show Rook. The man simply smiled a big, toothy but friendly smile and laughed.
SAM ROOK
“Yeah, I wrote that note. As for these…”
Rook ran a finger down the body of one of the dog tags, right along where the text was scratched badly.
SAM ROOK
“Well, these are yours. You were in Afghanastan for a couple of months. Not USA though. Blackwater, private contractor for the US. Seeing as how you got no family, they sent your stuff to me. Not to mention your assets, home, etc. which you’d left to me. All of these things are yours again of course; I couldn’t believe you were dead, my brother, after all… nothing alive or dead has managed to drag you down to hell where you belong. And I say that, Mr. Doe, as a friend.”
Skull took all this in silently. Rook gave him a few moments, then:
SAM ROOK
“So as for why I can’t tell you, or rather won't tell you who you were, I guess I got a gut feeling about this one. You were a troubled man, Mr. Doe. That’s why Blackwater wanted you, you were big, bad, and a killer, straight up and down. You were angry and had demons, real and within yourself. You need to understand that you were more of a beast then a man! I’m afraid that if you discover who you truly are, you’ll go back to that. And you seem plenty happy now.”
Skull stood up, angrily rising from his leather chair. He was furious at this man. How dare he come to him and tell him how he should live his life?
THE YELLOW SKULL
“That should be MY choice! Who I am is MY choice, I have the right to know who I was, who I really am! You think I’m happy? Every morning I wake up sweating, seeing nothing but this… this girl in the desert. What does that mean? It’s haunting me, Sam, it’s indescribable!”
SAM ROOK
“Mr. Doe, I understand how you feel, but trust me; a time will come when you will learn, regardless of what I say or do. When that time comes, you will be the hand that moves your destiny along. Until then, there are more immediate and more important problems at hand, which actually leads me to my reason for visiting you so abruptly...”
THE YELLOW SKULL
“Hey, wait, you need to tell me who the fuck I am!”
Rook looked at Skull, annoyed.
SAM ROOK
“Well you know what, Mr. Skull? I’d like my house back from Katrina, but yelling about it ain’t going to get me anywhere. You want to find out? You win this match. Win this match, and I will pull that opaque curtain away from your eyes, cool cat. I’ll make you see what you wish you ain’t NEVER saw. You can’t see it the way I do now, but my guess is after this match, you’ll understand why the person you were before was so powerful. You’ll understand why I am trying to keep it from you now. But, should you want to find out after, just say the word, and all shall be revealed.”
Skull looked down toward the floor. Despite being more then five inches taller then Rook, the man commanded tremendous respect. He could somehow make himself seem bigger then he was, and Skull was feeling like a kid who’d been severely chastised for doing something wrong. He wasn’t happy, but he kept his lips closed. Seeing this, Rook nodded before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a note.
SAM ROOK
“Read this, John. This is… well, this is something I think you will need to help you succeed.”
Skull looked back up, actually a little shocked. Help? Skull didn't really know how to react. He didn't really have any friends. He smiled a little beneath his mask, and nodded.
THE YELLOW SKULL
"Uh... thanks, Sam. I appreciate that. Were we really good friends before this accident?"
SAM ROOK
"Don't assume it was an accident, but yeah, we were."
THE YELLOW SKULL
"...are you going to keep being cryptic like this? Cause it's going to get real old real fast."
Rook smiled sadly. It seemed as if the weight of what he knew about Yellow Skull was incredible. He looked up to Skull one last time:
SAM ROOK
"Old friend... you have no idea how much you'll wish you never knew who you were. No idea."
Sunday, January 15th, 2012
10:00PM, Dressing Room
Rook had left shortly after that. He said that he'd meet him just before the beginning of the match. Skull had been glad to finally have time to himself, to process what had happened. But shortly after, he'd regretted letting him go. That man was a link to his past, a link a self that he could only dream of being again. Skull turned and leaned on the bathroom mirror, staring into the blank, black eye's in his mask. The mask he'd chosen was ironic; it was custom-made, but it was still a skull, something that every person has. His mask represented the soullessness that a person experiences without knowing who he is. Skull yanked the mask off suddenly, and stared into his own deep, sad, brown eyes set in a pitted and scarred face.
THE YELLOW SKULL
"Who am I?"
Suddenly, a cold feeling washed over him. The color seemed to fizzle out of the world, as the paisley wallpaper and blue carpet faded to a murky black. His head hurt, badly. It wasn't a migraine or anything even close to what he'd felt before. Then that laughter... like punching melted fat, like crunching small animals under your bare feet, that laughter! It was horrible.
VOICE
"Do you really want to know, boy? Will knowing make it easier to deal with? Or harder?"
Skull's mouth twitched hard. He collapsed to one knee. The pain was so, overwhelmingly bad.
THE YELLOW SKULL
"Who... who are you? Are you real... it can't be possible... you're in my head..."
Skull's head hit the floor. As the world spun into the empty, black void of unconsciousness, a last sentence was uttered by The Voice:
VOICE
"I am The Monster that you always feared, boy... I am you, and you are me... you will soon know the truth, and the truth is horrible..."
______________________________________________________________________
Do I really think I'll be great again?
Do I really think I can get to where I was?
... I don't know.
Honestly, I don't even know who I truly am.
See Steven I was preparing for this match and I was thinking to myself. I was thinking about how I'm not quite sure of who I am. I was thinking about how coincidental it was that I had ended up in Sin City Wrestling with the help of the newly aquainted Sam Rook. I was thinking how I would absolutely tear your body to shreads. But then something got me thinking.
Just what do I expect from this match?
Do I expect to win? Of course I do, I obviously have the size and skill advantage. Do I think it's going to be easy? Sure. From what I have been informed, Steven Kline, you are one of the most dumbest, heroic employees on the roster. But most of all, I am looking to reveal just a little more of the secrets to my past.
Steven, the main reason I came to this company was to kick ass. And the reason I want to kick ass is because I want to know the truth. I mean, it's unavoidable. I MUST find out my past, so I can start a greater future. And that's where you come in.
You're going to get destroyed, and the sad thing is, there isn't a damn thing you can do about it. There's no way around it. Because at the end of the day... you're still standing in a ring staring across into the eyes of one pissed off Monster. A 6'10", 300 pound ANIMAL. You're just going to be the first of many in a list of broken bodies. Really, it's an honour. And you're going to be the first one to help me find out who I really am.
