Post by strat on Jul 23, 2023 18:17:02 GMT -5
The cold, sterile steel of the locker room pressed against my back, matching the icy satisfaction that coursed through my veins. The flickering fluorescent lights overhead seemed to buzz in rhythm with my beating heart - a private symphony celebrating my triumph.
The harsh, official announcement of Matthew "The Raven" Knox's victory still echoed in the air, but its proclamation was nothing more than a farce to me. The wrestling ring was just a stage for my play. The real drama, I knew, was unfolding right now, beyond these metal walls that separated our locker rooms.
My attention was drawn to the sounds escaping the adjacent rooms. Knox's thunderous voice, grating and raw, was barely muffled by the thin locker room walls. The occasional heavy thud of what I presumed to be his fists against some unfortunate surface punctuated his enraged tirade. His fury was a testament to my manipulative prowess, a sweet victory that no mere three-count could match.
Muffled voices tried to reason with him as he demanded to be taken to me, but though I waited, he didn’t materialise.
In the room to my other side, a different tempest raged. Helena Handbasket, the unwitting puppet in my masterstroke, was not quiet in their torment. The crack in their voice painted a vivid image in my mind - a storm of hurt, betrayal, and confusion.
The cacophony that surrounded me was more than noise; it was music. Each echo of anger, each strained silence was a note in a symphony I had orchestrated. The harsh, discordant melody filled the locker room, amplifying the stark, tangible atmosphere. It was as if the very air around me vibrated with the aftermath of the storm I had unleashed.
I pushed myself off the door, stepping lightly across the cold concrete floor, my boots tapping a counterpoint to the chaos outside. A glance at the mirror reflected not just a wrestler but a puppeteer who had just choreographed a marionette show of epic proportions. The satisfaction was not in the victory - it was in the discord that I had skillfully sewn.
Striding to my locker, I pulled off my sweaty gear, the physical exhaustion a distant echo compared to the thrill of my mental victory. The cool, sterile air washed over me, whispering of the emotional tempest I'd stirred. I could almost taste their desperation, their confusion, their anger - and it was delicious.
The rising crescendo of their anger was a soothing lullaby to me. I slipped into a comfortable chair, eyes closed, listening to the music of their disarray. I was more than the victor of a match; I was the author of the next chapter in their lives, the puppet master who had made a father betray his child. And that, that was a feeling no wrestling ring could ever offer.
Just as I was immersing myself in the symphony of their turmoil, the shrill ringing of my phone cut through the cacophony, a discordant note. I smiled, seeing the Caller ID.
" Speak of the devil... " I murmured under my breath as I swiped to answer.
" Congratulations, Darling, " my wife's voice flowed through the speaker, as crisp and calculated as ever. " You've orchestrated it all to perfection. "
" Don’t seem so surprised, Love. " I responded, my own voice equally controlled, our conversation a carefully rehearsed ballet. " I'm glad you were able to appreciate the finesse. "
" We watched it all unfold, " she said, her words as precise as a surgeon's knife. " Sometimes and I can't wait to see you. "
" And I can't wait to see you both. " I said, a genuine smile cutting across my face.
The world could think what they wanted, but my real victory was waiting at home, in the arms of my wife and our daughter, 'Sometimes'. In the grand scheme of things, that's where the true game was played, and where I reaped my greatest rewards.
—
In a dimly lit room, an intricate dance of shadows was played out on a table scattered with slips of paper. Each marked with a name, a key piece in our grand game.
" The opening moves, " I began, my voice cutting through the quiet air like a blade, " are not about immediate victories. They create a foundation for the endgame. We're playing a game of strategy, not strength. "
" But why not just go all out and clean house right from the start? " An upbeat voice interjected, brimming with exuberance.
A knowing smile graced my lips. " Why hand out invitations for revenge? Why make ourselves the prime targets? " I countered, my fingers idly tracing the names on the paper slips. " We create an illusion of control, a semblance of hope. There's nothing more intoxicating than false confidence. "
Amid the silence that followed, a measured, icy voice cut through, pointing to a piece of paper on the table. " Knox? " she asked, her tone as cold as the steel-blue of her eyes.
I nodded, replying confidently, " I'll handle Knox. "
My finger then moved to another name - " Cortes ", and she merely nodded in affirmation.
" Fine. "
My gaze then turned to two other pieces of paper, 'Kane' and 'Penelope' written in bold. " Realistically, it's either of these two that we'd want topping that team. At all costs. "
The ensuing silence was filled with the weight of our agreement, as we nodded at each other. The game was set, the players were in place. All that was left was to play.
—
The name Lachlan Kane rested heavily in my thoughts, stirring up a whirlpool of calculation and contemplation. Kane, the Irish underdog, had built a reputation on grit and determination, a commendable feat, to be sure. It was a classic narrative of a hard-knock life that had an irresistible appeal to those who fancied themselves supporters of the downtrodden.
But the truth of the matter, the unavoidable and inexorable truth, was that the game we played was not designed for the likes of Kane. I found a perverse admiration in the sheer audacity of the man, climbing from his humble roots to throw his hat in a ring that was better suited for royalty than the working class.
The simpleton charm, the robust defiance in the face of insurmountable odds, it did have a certain allure. It made for a compelling spectacle, a relatable protagonist for the masses to rally behind. A man of their own, a representation of their hopes, dreams, and hardships.
But the Trials is no stage for romanticised fables. It's a battlefield where the cunning and ruthless rise to the pinnacle. It's not about how hard you can hit, but rather, how strategically you can play your cards. And that is where men like Lachlan Kane fall short. He's outclassed, outmaneuvered by players of my calibre.
I'm not just a participant in this game; I'm its puppet master.
Which brings me to MERICA.
A peculiar case, indeed. A rookie who has chosen to stride into the wrestling world swathed in the very fabric of his nation, his patriotism so blatant, it borders on the absurd. This is a man whose identity is so intricately woven with the concept of America, one might almost forget there's a human being underneath all that stars-and-stripes pageantry.
I find it interesting, this deliberate conflation of persona and patriotism. Such exuberant nationalistic fervor could be a calculated ploy, a bid for quick recognition in a sea of talent. Yet, it might also stem from genuine devotion. But regardless of the motive, it reduces the individual to a one-dimensional spectacle, a novelty act, nothing more than a bright, transient spark.
However, wrestling isn't simply about spectacle. It's about mind games, strategy, the subtle art of maneuvering one's opponent until they fall into your trap. The concept of MERICA is too grandiose, too unwieldy to grapple with. The man behind the facade, on the other hand, is far more tangible, far more vulnerable.
This young upstart, this rookie swaddled in red, white, and blue... what is he when stripped of his patriotic trappings? Is he a true warrior? Or is he just another young man in over his head, using the flag as a safety blanket?
The man beneath the symbol – that's my target. I don't plan to wrestle a nation. I'm after the person foolish enough to think he could represent it all on his shoulders.
An Irish battler and an American idealist. Quite the ensemble for our upcoming spectacle. Their juxtaposition – Lachlan with his blue-collar tenacity, and MERICA, the star-spangled novice – offers a delectable tableau of contrasts.
I have no doubt that their interactions would be anything short of compelling. Their dissimilar characters and the resulting tension is a tempest waiting to be unleashed. Can Kane's unyielding grit withstand MERICA’s youthful exuberance? Will the American rookie's unwieldy patriotism spark resentment in the stoic Irishman? A fascinating dynamic, indeed.
In their own way, both are blinded by their narratives, limited by the personas they've chosen. This myopia, their inability to see beyond their chosen identities, is where I see my opportunity. Instead of a three-way battle, I anticipate a two-pronged struggle – Kane and MERICA against the consequences of their own myopia.
While they grapple with each other’s contrasting personalities, I'll be patiently orchestrating from the sidelines, subtly manipulating the dynamics. In their chaotic interplay, I'll find my opening, exploit their weaknesses, and strike when they least expect it. This isn't just a match; it's a chessboard, and they are but pawns unaware of the grand strategy in play. I don't intend to beat them; I intend to unravel them.
As they contend with each other, I'll be dissecting the men behind the personas, plotting their fall. I’ve already given you the blueprint, just ask Knox or Handbasket - if you can find them - what its like to share the ring with me.
—
In the sun-kissed sprawl of Miami International Airport, I watched as my family appeared from the bustling crowd. Demi, as elegant as ever, with our little Charlotte - or 'Sometimes', as we loved to call her - in tow. The sight of them melted away the last remnants of the wrestling match, and my face broke into a genuine smile.
" There are my favorite ladies, " I called out, wrapping them both in a bear hug the moment they reached me. My heart bloomed with joy as I held them close. " You have no idea how much more enjoyable my job is when I have you two with me. "
Charlotte squirmed free from the hug, her teenage independence already setting in. " We've missed you too, Dad, " she replied, her voice carrying an undertone of amusement. " It's way less chaotic when you're not around. "
" Less chaotic, huh? " I teased, ruffling her hair. Her complaints were always playfully feigned, but beneath the veneer of teenage indifference, I could see the excitement in her eyes. " How about your science project, Sometimes? The one about black holes, remember? How did that go? "
She shrugged nonchalantly, her gaze scanning the bustling airport. " It was okay, I guess. Could've been better. "
Sensing her evasion, I pressed on. " And the rest of school? How did your tests go? "
" It was fine, Dad. Just school stuff, nothing big, " she said, rolling her eyes, as though I was embarrassing her, as though any other topic on the face of the earth would be preferable than to talk about, ugh, oh em gee, school.
Before I could inquire further, Demi chimed in, a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. " Don't let her understated demeanor fool you, Stephen. Our girl aced all her end-of-year tests, as usual. "
" Is that so? " I turned back to Charlotte, my eyebrows raised in feigned surprise, my heart swelling with pride. " Well, that's my girl. "
I reached my arm out and swathed it over her shoulder, not allowing her instinct to pull away to succeed. For a moment she resisted until she couldn’t anymore, and the child who wanted to be loved emerged from the aloof teenage shell. Over my shoulder, I looked toward Demi who was now wheeling both sets of suitcases as we edged nearer the gate. She was looking back at us, pridefully.
“ How did it go with Little Red Riding Hood? ” I ask, quietly.
“ The Big Bad Wolf gobbled her all up. ” Charlotte quipped, not knowing the mental images that conjured for me. Little Red Riding Hood, Grandmother’s House, and by extension The Big Bad Wolf - were all pseudonyms, of course. We were not actually talking about the children’s story.
Demi took pause, just briefly, to maintain composure. “ Ahem, yes. Everything went well at Grandmother’s. ”
A look of acknowledgement briefly flitters between us as I return my gaze ahead.
“ But I’m sure the Big Bad Wolf did get his meal soon after I left. He was staring with starved eyes from the other side of the room whilst I spoke to Little Red Riding Hood. ” this time, she spoke quietly, as though she only wanted me to hear it.
I laughed, and Charlotte seemed very confused but didn’t ask questions. She knew better than that.
“ But, if you’re really intrigued, you can ask him for yourself. He’s coming to San Juan. ”