“Blood in the Water”
Monday, January 30th, 2012
Synn’s Home
The soft fuzzy glow that the television screen casts across Synn's face only serves to highlight the imperfections caused by the multitude of scars that made his face into a freak show mask. Synn held a grim expression, with his jaw clamped tight, and his eyes focused on the screen. The background was a edition of “Pro Wrestling News,” and the focus was the upcoming edition of SCW’s Climax Control; his opponent was Old Skool. This man (boy: boy, he reminded himself. This guy was nothing but a boy) was certainly going to lose, as could have never in his life have beaten Synn.
Many years ago, way back before his SCW career, he'd been booked at a dark card match against another no-name who went by the ring name Dante Padilla. The man had some sort of a Mexican wrestling sort of shtick; that's how you could always identify who couldn't fight, by the way, because if you have a shtick, you're just looking to get paid, not to get made. Anyways, Synn had crushed him. Totally dominated him, in every sense of the word. Dante was cut open, bleeding on the mat, and to rob Synn of a victory, he slid out of the ring. Dante let himself be counted out, and let the contest fall as a DQ, and not a win by pinfall or submission. That was his first match for that nameless federation from so long ago, and Synn had been livid. He'd paced the hallway, out of his mind (more then usual, anyways) from rage. He'd been fired from the federation for destroying the locker room, but that didn't bother him. He wasn't the sort of man who fought for the sake of a paycheck; if indeed he was a man at all, he was the sort that fought simply because he had to.
He'd checked into a library, and did a little research. He'd figured out that Dante Padilla's actual name was Anthony Moscatelli, an Italian who lived just a few miles away. It had taken every ounce of his considerable willpower for Synn to hold himself back from jumping into his curtain kicker Toyota and heading over to kick his teeth out right then and there. Instead, he'd played it smart, played it cerebrally, as he always did.
He drove out the next morning, at four A.M, and parked down the street, so he could see Dante's driveway in his rearview. The Toyota Synn drove was a shade of green that was so common, still is common, that he looked like any old car just sitting on the road. He sat, and waited until Dante pulled out of his driveway. Then Synn followed him.
He didn't just follow him to the arena, or to the grocery store, or anywhere particular; he just followed him, careful to keep at least two or three cars between them. Synn would take each opportunity to stop and change the way he looked; he would duck into a gas station, buy a baseball hat or some oversized sunglasses, or whatever he could to keep his very noticeable silhouette different. He would do little things to change the way the car looked, too: he would alternate which sun protector was down, turn the inside lights on at various times, and when he could stop, he would unload bags of laundry into the back seats of the car, making it look like there were other occupants. Dante never saw him coming. Synn did this for a week.
When the next Monday came around, Synn had known this man's schedule. He'd known when he would turn, where he was going, when he would try to make a light, where he would slow down to avoid police. Synn had tried to take stock of every person and car that was in the parking garage Dante used when he went to visit his friend each morning before he went to the gym. He noticed that today, there was approximately the same number of cars around. When Dante turned into the space, Synn drove past him, and parked one level up. He went to the farthest elevator right and signaled down, and entered the elevator car. As the door closed, Synn felt his heart accelerate just the slightest bit. He reached into his pocket and took out a coffee cup, and laid it on the ground, allowing the contents to spill out across the floor. Then the car stopped moving, and the unmistakable "ding" sound that elevators made when they stopped at a floor signaled time to slow down.
The doors slowly opened, and in front of Synn stood Dante. His eyes were down, and he had pursed his lips, ready to nod his head and shuffle past the stranger in the elevator to get on. When Synn didn't move, Dante looked up, and for just a few seconds, all the reward a human being might need was the dumb, shocked look on Dante's face. He leaned back on his left foot, as if to turn to run, but in addition to being incredibly smart, horrifically persistent, unnaturally patient, and absurdly strong, Synn was also remarkably quick. One arm was around Dante's throat, choking off any sound he might have tried to make to alert anyone. Synn was fairly sure nobody was around to hear, but he didn't need to take chances.
He dragged Dante in to the top floor, and as soon as the door closed, Synn grinned his horrible, sickening grin.
DAMON SYNN
"Sorry, old buddy. Nobody runs away. Not from me."
One move is all he had, and Synn made it count. Synn released his grip on Dante for a fraction of a second, and as he gasped for air, Synn put both hands behind Dante's head, and with the force of a bus hitting a concrete wall, slammed Dante's head into the side railing of the elevator. There was a crack, and a whole mess of blood almost instantly. Synn knew he'd done some serious damage to the man, and his heart was pounding like a hammer. The door made it’s “ding” sound again, and Synn stepped out, over Dante who was twitching, but still alive, on the floor. Synn dragged Dante by the collar of his shirt so his head would stay in between the elevator doors, keeping this particular car on this floor until somebody made the discovery. Synn took a hankerchief out from his pocket, carefully rubbed the buttons all down to make sure there were no prints, and walked out.
He’d proceeded down to his car, and got onto the freeway, then the highway, until he’d made it to his new home in Cape Cod, planning on jumping the border in case he’d actually killed the man. He was exhausted, and when he finally got to a bedroom in his home, he flicked on the news as he lay, drowsily in bed. The face of a young woman came into view, broadcasting the New York news. In the little box in the corner, where they labeled their stories, Synn read “Caution, Wet Floor.”
ANCHORWOMAN
“—the news today is a man who warns of the dangers of wet floors. A man by the name of Anthony Moscatelli took a nasty fall in an elevator today while visiting a friend. He slipped in a cup of coffee that was spilled, and ended up in the emergency room and is still listed as in serious condition. Police initially suspected assault, however Mr. Moscatelli refuted the allegation.”
The screen filled up with Dante’s face, swollen, encircled by a neck brace. His mouth was horribly puffy, and he looked wired from fear.
DANTE PADILLA
“No, there was no attack! I just… I slipped.”
POLICE OFFICER
“You… you slipped? You have a broken neck, you’re missing three teeth, have a crack in you skull, and subdural bleeding, and you’re saying you got all of that from a slip?”
The man clearly knew more, but he lowered his head and nodded in the affirmative. Synn had achieved the desired outcome; not only did he put the man in the hospital, but he’d also made him so terrified of Synn that he wouldn’t even go to the police. When you know enough about a man that you could tail him in his sleep, and you make it known to that man, he will not be able to sleep at night, or go out to take the trash out after dark. Breaking somebody’s mind is so much more effective then breaking somebody’s neck. Though, Synn supposed, that was a nice side-effect as well.
Synn snapped himself back to reality. PWN had long since finished airing, and he reluctantly turned the television off.
He was going into this match against Old Skool, so his violent nature would be put into this match. Synn knew that even a mouse, when agitated, could bite pretty hard, so Synn would finish Old Skool for good immediately after the match. Synn was an unmovable object, and when in motion, and unstoppable force. If he had to, he could beat the entire SCW roster if the need presented itself. As such, he was going to be merciless to Old Skool, just as he had with Steven Kline and Saint Patty.
The Lantern Diner
Early Next Morning
The Lantern looked like about a dozen other dinners in America, which in turn looked like about every other dinner in the United States. The mirror paneling, the bar that looks like it’s on a train car, and the booth seating could be found replicated across the world. Synn had sat down after a long night of studying that one match on his opponent, and indeed, the rest of the SCW roster.
The waitress walked by, a cute little blond thing that was a wisp of a body and long wavy blonde hair that was obviously dyed. She smiled at Synn as she poured him his coffee, and then squinted as she turned, and paused half-way back to the kitchen. She turned around and approached him.
WAITRESS
“You’re like, that wrestler, right?”
Synn looked up at her from his seat at the bar and smiled a he chewed on his eggs. He swallowed what he’d bitten and put his napkin down on the table.
DAMON SYNN
“You know, you’re gonna have to be a lot more specific then that.”
She smiled at him in a bit of a flirtatious fashion. SCW was actually a pretty big deal in Nevada, so even with his ugly mug, he’d gotten a bit of attention lately.
WAITRESS
“That new one. You beat somebody last week, you’re up against… New? Old Skool? Shouldn’t you be like, working out or something? That’s just a few days away!”
DAMON SYNN
“Hah. Look at me; do I look like I need to work out? Hell no, I don’t need to work out. You may not know it, but Old Skool is just some guy off the street who just happens to have a cheap, handy gimmick. It is the first and last time we’ll be locking up, because I'm taking him out on Sunday.”
She squealed a little with delight. Synn knew her type; he could say almost anything and elicit the same reaction. She was so impressed by him that he could do no wrong in her eyes. She was incredibly unintelligent, and markedly uninteresting. She twirled one of her wavy locks with her finger.
WAITRESS
“Well, I was wondering, since you seem like such a nice guy and all…”
DAMON SYNN
“Hold it. You think… I’m a nice guy?”
He arched one eyebrow at her. She hadn’t expected the interjection, and wrinkled her face up at him, trying to think on the run, and failing to do so.
WAITRESS
“Well, yeah. You are nice to me, so far, and you talk really well. You aren’t like some of the other wrestlers, a lot of them come in here you know! Most of them come in acting all rough and tough… not you though. You seem sensitive. You seem… nice.”
She ended the sentence with a smile, and Synn held back tossing the coffee on her. He smiled and looked down, then back up at her quickly.
DAMON SYNN
“Lemme ask you something, darlin’. Who would you be more afraid of… a man with a gun, or a man with a smile?”
WAITRESS
“Um, the man with the gun, obviously!”
DAMON SYNN
“Well, I think that makes you an idiot. You see, you know what the man with the gun’ll do to you if he wants to get rough. He pulls that trigger, and a little piece of led makes your brains into an abstract painting on the wall behind you. The man with the smile though, he’s not a nice guy. No, he’s even worse then the man with the gun. He’s the guy who stays awhile, gets to know you, and seems pretty unthreatening, even if he is a big, ugly bastard like me. He builds you up, and in the end, he turns out the Ted Kaczynski or Hannibal Lector or Marilyn Manson. He tears the skin off your bones with a potato peeler and makes you eat your own family.”
The waitress had lost the color in her face. She backed away slowly, but Synn stood up, slowly advancing on her, like a big cat stalking it’s prey.
DAMON SYNN
“You see, he smiles because he’s looking forward to not just killing you, and not just hurting you, but hunting you, and slowly, carefully, and precisely breaking you down the way a butcher cuts up a cow. You got that?”
She had run into the wall, and nodded, clearly terrified. She dropped the coffee pot, which shattered on the floor. The place hadn’t been busy, but those who were there were focused in on this conversation/confrontation intently. You could hear a pen drop in the room. Synn tore a hundred dollar bill from his coat pocket and dropped it into the spilt coffee. He stepped to the door, turned and stated in a flat, chillingly calculated voice:
DAMON SYNN
“If you need some confirmation, just ask Old Skool in a week. Baby, there’s blood in the water. And I’m the shark. Don’t think for a second that I’m anything else.”
And with that, he was gone.
____________________________________________________________________
Sin-Sational, are you?
You’re sin-sational.
You’re nothing but a joke, Old Skool. You’re nothing more than a ghetto child from the projects who fantasized all day about King Midas and how even his shit turned to gold. You want to be like him. You want to look around your faux kingdom and pretend to be the ruler of all you see. You want to act as though you’re something special, something worthy of the status that you were HANDED.
You didn’t earn your position, Old Skool. You didn’t earn a damn thing. All you did was manage to sneak your way up the card. All you managed to do was make yourself look good by surrounding yourself with the bottom of the barrel. It shames me to know that you could be facing me—Damon Synn—when you’re better off knocking knuckles with that Canadian prick or that chick with the plastic face. You know, the one who needs to see the shrink.
So here we are, stuck at the third match on, and while I’m not complaining, I can’t help but wonder why it is that I’ve been dispatched once again to face another nobody who thinks he’s something special. Last week it was Saint Patty, a punk ass who thought that beause he was making his return to the SCW, that he had a hope in hell of defeating Damon Synn last week. I think it’s kind of suspicious, you know. It’s kind of suspicious that Damon Synn earns his right to be pushed up the card, forevermore towards the Heayvyweight Title, and yet the first order of business is to extract the waste of skin, the bag of bones, the no-talent schlock from the upper echelon of the SCW Roster.
Is there an agenda here, Mark?
Are you somehow making me work for you?
Even so, it doesn’t matter. I’m getting what I want out of this, and Old Skool, King of his Own Mind, is nothing more than another step, another body to be piled in the back. Old Skool’s destiny is not to be Sin-Sational, his destiny is to be another back to be broken in for Damon Synn. I hope he got the memo this week.
And yet, on February Twelfth, he will no doubt try to come at me with all he can. He will no doubt be looking to make his name, to finally prove to the world that he’s something more than a lost cause, on the name of Damon Synn. He will walk into the ring with a cocky grin, he will look across the ring to see his opponent… and he will see me. He won’t realize what’s coming though, his kind never does.
Old Skool’s kind never realizes the ass kicking they’re about to receive, until it’s too late. They never realize that they’ve stepped in way over their head until they’re left on the ground, bloody and broken, spitting teeth and desperately trying to pick out the chicklets from the goop of blood that surrounds them. That’s your fate, Old Skool. I will make sure of that.
And so here we are. I will watch with glee as your faux kingdom crashes to your feet, as you break your crown. I will sport the greatest grin in history as you watch with horror as your court is crunched to bone dust. I will cackle as you try to flee me, as you try to scrape and crawl with what will be left of your nails, to try desperately to get away. I will watch, and I will take immense pleasure in the fact that you will be just another body to be disposed of.
Old Skool, your funeral is at hand. I suggest you live well, a life fit for a king… because when you step into the ring with Damon Synn, the dream you have lived, the faux kingdom that you pretended to rule over while the drool dribbled from your chin and your mommy wiped your ass with a fresh diaper…
Old Skool, on February Twelfth…
… The dream is over.
