'The High Priestess' or: Tomorrow Never Knows II: Electric Boogaloo

Previously: Daytona Diamonds might’ve been on the losin’ team at WarGames, but that didn’t do nothin’ to hurt his standin’ in PRIME. In fact, he weaseled his way into a goddang title shot ‘gainst Max Kael, one of only two men who’d ever beaten him. How’s that for serendipity, huh? Or maybe it was more like Deja vu…

Poor ol’ Daytona, though. With his first title shot hangin’ heavy on his mind, Bambi back home in New Jersey still pissed as all get out, and the Tomcat Talent Agency still knockin’ at his door, he sure did have a lot to contend with. Reckon that’s the life of a cowboy though, ain’t it? Hardships and heartache. Just keep that gun on your hip and it’ll all work out right. ‘Course, that ain’t accountin’ for all them quicker gunslingers out there who might outdraw you…

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I. English Blues For The American Tourist

Say, ain’t we been here before?

The battlefield was a tumble-torn acre of carnage, bodies stripped of flesh and left as half-chewed carcasses for the vultures to pick clean. I stood once more ‘pon them ramparts, watchin’ through bloodshot eyes as The Great Beast Maximum Kale reared one of his five grinnin’ heads up from his hovel ‘neath the Earth. As my men-at-arms raised their spears and charged headlong into certain death, I lifted my sword towards the sky.

A single glint of light there amongst the smoke and ruin. It hit the edge of the blade, a prismatic refraction shinin’ a hole through those darkened clouds above. I heard the engine ‘fore I ever even seen it; my faithful steed, The Jetskiasus, flyin’ through the sky on a trail of diamond dust.

“Hath not thine victory, foul beast!” I screamed through dust-riddled lungs. “I shalt only live forever or ‘tis death by suicide!”

Angelic wings sprouted from The Jetskiasus, all shimmer-shine in the half-light. I rode to war, sword hoisted high and teeth clenched tighter’n dick skin. Maximum Kale spewed fire ‘cross the frontlines and I saw good men die, but their death weren’t for nothin’. With my hands wrapped ‘round the sword’s hilt, I flew towards The Great Beast, rearin’ back my blade to sever head from neck and then… then…

I woke up.

Sunlight pourin’ through sheer curtains and a migraine poundin’ at my skull. Outside, London was already alive and kickin’, horns beepin’ and tempers flarin’. It weren’t nothin’ like where I was from and that was enough to make me not want to be there no more. I’d been there for a couple weeks, strollin’ into town the day after Culture Shock, and I was already regrettin’ my decision to stay in Europe for the whole goddang tour. I thought maybe I’d learn a little somethin’, immerse myself in the culture, go home with fond memories of a place I’d never longed to be. Turns out, London didn’t have nothin’ I wanted to know ‘bout. Neither did Wales, for that matter. Just the sprawlin’ remains of a once great empire. It all looked like plastic and smelt like fish piss. You could see the same goddang thing at Epcot for half the fuckin’ hassle.

Sure would be better with a little bit of nose candy, huh?

I checked myself into the nicest hotel I could find. After losin’ WarGames (not my fault, fuck the eGG Bandits and fuck Coral Avalon for gettin’ my hopes up), I needed a little pick me up. It was dressed up like an old world hussy, fancy lookin’ brickwork on the outside and pinky-up modern for the interior. They had a doorman waitin’ outside, a piano in the lobby, and a fuckin’ chandelier hangin’ from the ceiling that looked like it’d been robbed from Liberace’s tomb. Fuckin’ classy.

Sure was a step up from the Desert Dreams Motel, huh? Part of me missed those days, though. In spite of myself, in spite of everything. Back ‘fore the money and the mistakes, when it was just me and Bambi up all night in that shithole room, fuckin’ like we meant it and snortin’ more coke than a Wall Street yuppie. Rose colored glasses, ain’t it? Nostalgia. Memories tinged in sepia tone, the best parts remembered and the worst parts long forgotten.

I missed her, y’know? Bambi, I mean.

Despite all them things I said and all them ways I felt. I’d tried callin’ a few times. Left a couple voicemails, apologizin’ and agonizin’ and doin’ all them things I never were the type to do. Husbandly mournings, I reckon. She ain’t called back. I ‘spose she’s still angry, provin’ some point for the sake of her own pride. I get it. Can even blame her. That don’t make it no easier, though.

Y’know what could take away that pain, don’tcha?

Sober and lonely in a luxury hotel in London. Life’s a fuckin’ trip, ain’t it? I rolled over, groanin’ out loud ‘gainst the weight of the world. Three missed calls and a text message from George Giorgio Jorgensen. It read: “You still sleeping champ??? What time is it there anyway??? Wake up!!! You’ve got a meeting with the hottest talent agent Tomcat Europe has to offer!!!”

I wiped the sleep from my eyes and fumbled through a response, “wut ru talkin bout georgie? jus woke up”

Five seconds later, Georgie wrote back, “Remember how I told you I was setting up a meeting with one of our agents??? Vera Venturi!!! We gave you her card!!! She just landed in foggy old London and she wants to meet you ASAP!!!”

“shit,” I wrote back. “dunno if im feelin it 2day georgie.. raincheck???”

“Daytona!!! Get your ass outta bed and go go go!!!” Georgie’s text said. “Don’t tell me we saved your ass on that island for nothing!!!”

Fuckin' got me there. “fine… where am i meetin this broad???”

“I’ll send you the address!!! You’re gonna love her, Daytona!!! Talk soon!!!”

I let out a big ol’ yawn and climbed my way outta bed, feelin’ somewhere between half-awake and half-dead. Weren’t no cure for what ailed me, I figured. Just a malaise. Homesick, maybe. Heartsick, probably. No matter how good it might be goin’, it never does go right, does it?

Poor Daytona. Feelin’ down? 

You a sad little sack-a shit right now? 

Remember when you flushed that baggie, buddy? 

Well, this is revenge. 

This is what you get. 

This is what you deserve. 

Fuck you.

‘Yeah,’ I thought. ‘Fuck me, I guess.’

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II. Some Sunny Day

And the sea did rage and the sky did storm as one of Maximum Kale’s five heads fell to the earth below, wailin’ with gnashin’ teeth. The knights on the war-ravaged field below cheered, victory closer than they ever might have dreamt. Orange-glowin’ embers rained from the heavens as The Great Beast screamed, that fuckin’ grin never leavin’ his goddang faces. One of his heads reared high, jaw unhinged ‘fore crooked teeth chomped down hard on the back of The Jetskiasus. I kicked and stabbed, but it weren’t no use.

I leapt from my faithful steed just as it exploded in Maximum Kale’s mouth, debris and viscera rainin’ to the ground below. I landed hard ‘gainst one of The Beast’s many elongated necks, stabbin’ my sword in deep to use as a handhold. It was little more than a splinter to that wicked monstrosity, but it still screeched and clawed.

“Thoust demise draweth near, Maximum Kale!” I shouted. “Thou’s intensity ‘tis no match for mine own! Have at thee, wretched spawn!”

I dragged my blade down his throat, acidic blood pourin’ out and stingin’ my eyes, but it didn’t matter. Blind as a bat or with eyes like a hawk, I was gonna win. I was gonna slay this monster. I was gonna.. I was gonna…

“...Monsieur Diamonds?” she asked. “Did you hear me?”

“Huh? Oh. Sorry, honey,” I said. “I was just spacin’ out is all.”

I looked up from my napkin doodle. A stick figure rendition of myself holdin’ up a sword while an even more poorly drawn dragon representin’ Max Kael lay bleedin’ on the ground. My head was swimmin’. Drawin’ was all I could do to keep from starin’.

Let’s go ‘head and get it out of the way: when I first saw Vera Venturi walkin’ through the front door, the earth shook and the heavens trembled and it took everything I had to not get down on my knees and beg her to sit on my face. I’ve seen a million women in my lifetime and I’ve fucked just ‘bout half of ‘em, but this weren’t no ordinary woman. This was a goddess walkin’ ‘mongst us mere mortals. I’m talkin’ tits out to here and hips out to there, skinny where it counted and thick where it mattered. Ruby red lips like a mountain range on fire, eyes so green they looked like an open field. She was a smokeshow, a bombshell, a goddang French-Italian dreamboat that came to sweep me up off the shore and carry me away to paradise.

You should fuck her. 

You could fuck her. 

Just think ‘bout the kinda party y’all could have together. 

Ain’t like you’re gettin’ any from your so-called wife, right?

If I looked at her too long, my eyes started waterin’, so I tried not to look too hard. We were set up in a pub a few blocks from my hotel, one of them quintessential English haunts with polished wood walls, the lights turnt way down low, and the fuckin’ Union Jack pinned up on the wall like a poster in a college kid’s dorm room. The bartender looked so stereotypically British  it was almost offensive and the patrons weren’t much better. Vera Venturi drank wine. I drank water. With every sip, I wanted a fuckin’ beer.

“I asked how are you enjoying London,” she repeated. “Is the city to your liking, Monsieur Diamonds?”

“S’alright, I guess,” I lied. “Reckon I was expectin’... more. And call me Daytona. That ‘monsieur’ shit ain’t my vibe.”

“Ah, a man who can separate the truth from the lies,” she said with a smile, leanin’ ‘cross the table. “I hate it here. A city satisfied with its own mediocrity. One must never rest on their laurels. Do you not agree, Daytona?”

The way my name left her lips made my heart swell so large it mighta burst, a lump in my throat as I nodded my head. “Well… well, yeah,” I said. “Gotta keep on keepin’ on. Like a goddang shark, right? You stop movin’, you might as well just keel over.”

“Yes! Yes, Daytona! Like a shark!” She laughed as she leaned back in her chair, index finger circlin’ the rim of her wine glass. “Monsieur Jorgensen tells me that you are a shark, yes? A trailblazer! A revolutionary! Is this true? Do you see yourself as such?”

“Well, hell, I don’t know ‘bout all that,” I said. “I’m just a wrassler is all. A pretty fuckin’ good one, but I digress. Good enough to get a goddang title shot, at least.”

“Ah yes, our soon-to-be champion,” she said. “You’re very welcome.”

“Huh?” I asked. “Whaddaya mean I’m welcome?”

“Oh, come now, Daytona,” Vera said. “I’m sure Monsieur Jorgensen explained that we are a full service agency. We simply ensured you would receive your title shot. That is what you wanted, non? Consider it yet another sample of what you can achieve as our client.”

“No kiddin’...?” I asked, scratchin’ my head. “Dang... I figured ol’ Queen Bitch Troy was finally gettin’ that stick outta her ass. You sayin’ y’all pulled some strings? What, you bribe ‘em or somethin’?”

“Non, non! Nothing of the sort! This match was yours to gain and yours to earn!” Vera said, wavin’ her hand in the air. “We simply… helped lay the groundwork, yes? After you defeated Youngblood, we began a campaign online. Social media. Reddit, Facebook, Twitter. We made thousands of posts as supposed fans who wanted nothing more than to see Le Cowboy en Strass as their champion. These posts, in tandem with your own success, only made it more apparent that this is your moment.”

“Shitfire,,” I muttered. “So, that’s it, huh? Just like that? I win a couple matches, y’all make it seem like I’m a fuckin’ golden boy, and presto?”

“Of course. In wrestling, as in all forms of entertainment, perceived popularity is the most important currency of them all,” she said. “But it is up to you to capitalize on that acclaim. You will defeat Max Kael, yes? I understand he has bested you once before…”

At that, I smirked. “Lissen, honey. Max Kael ain’t nothin’ but a creepy little pissbaby. And you know what we do with pissbabies, don’tcha? We piss on them ‘fore they can piss on us. I’m gonna drown that sonuvabitch.”

“Such poetic disparagements!” she laughed. “Monsieur Jorgensen warned me you had a colorful way with words, Monsieur Diamonds. You’ve yet to disappoint.”

She looked at me from ‘cross the table and I fell into her eyes like a fever or a dream, hypnotized by the smile playin’ at the corners of her lips, the way her hand rested ‘neath her chin with the wrist bent just so. There weren’t no ring on her finger, not even a goddang tanline. The way she looked at me, it felt like she was readin’ my thoughts, measurin’ them, dissectin’ them. I hoped that weren’t true ‘cause, if it was, she was already seein’ just how dirty my mind could get.

“Should you decide to sign with us, our campaign will continue and expand,” she told me. “While you certainly seem to have Max Kael handled, it does not end there. I’ll work with you hand-in-hand to build your brand, your image, your élan. Whether you want to be a household name or a critical darling, I’ll be with you every step of the way. Is that what you want, Daytona?”

It was exactly what I wanted, but I didn’t say it then and there. I bit my lower lip and looked back down at my doodlin’. “I’m still gonna have to think ‘bout it,” I told her. “Sorry, honey.”

“Of course, Monsieur Diamonds,” she said. “We have all the time in the world. After all, tomorrow never knows, non?”

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III. La Vaise

The Great Beast Maximum Kael threw me to the ground and lifted one of his many cloven-hooved feet to the sky. I rolled away just as it came crashin’ down, the ground shiverin’ ‘neath its weight. I wiped the blood from my eyes, grittin’ my teeth as I pushed myself back up to stand. The stars were fallin’ from the sky, pockmarkin’ the earth. The Great Beast’s uncouth hordes spewed forth from their wombs beneath the soil, skitterin’ and clawin’ towards me, tossin’ silt and sand and tryna bury me alive, but I cut ‘em down as quick as they came.

I stood knee-deep in blood as one of Maximum Kael’s many-faced heads lowered to my level, grin curlin’ in hideous delight.

I̶̙͊S̵̟̽ ̵̟̔T̵̖̚H̵͓̏Í̵̮S̶̙̕ ̸̮̓T̵͕̽R̶̡̎Ǘ̶̩L̸͚̓Ȳ̴̡ ̴͉̈Ä̴̙́L̷̬͗Ļ̵̛ ̶̧̇Ŷ̴͍O̴̡̊Ų̷̅ ̵͈̉H̸̥̽Ḁ̴̀V̸̯̄E̷̱̽ ̶͈͊T̸̮̊Ỏ̶̩ ̷̪͂O̴̤͋F̵͎̔F̶̰͂Ȅ̷̥R̶̰̽,̶͙͆ ̴͎̈́K̷̗͑I̸̛̫N̶̑͜G̵̨̽ ̶̲͝D̵͍͛Į̴͛A̷͓͗M̴̥͑Ơ̶̥N̸̠̓D̶̮̑Ŝ̴͎?̷͔͛ ̴̭̊ ̶͉̾Ǎ̴̡L̵̞̒L̸̪̕ ̸͉̍Y̸̝̍Õ̸̖Û̵̞ ̷̱̒Ḫ̷̋A̴̙̿V̵̩͗E̵̒͜ ̶̡̕T̷̩̄Ȍ̴͉ ̶̪̿Ĝ̷̼İ̴̜V̴̧͛E̶͉̋?̴̞͗ ̷͕̂ ̵̠͐Ṕ̵̰A̶͙͘T̷͙̏Ḫ̸̅E̷̛̞T̷̼̈́I̶̲̎C̶̻͝!̴̬̊

I sneered in defiance. “Thou shalt rue this day, swine! ‘Tis the day of your… of your…”

Aw hell. Let’s be honest here. There weren’t no dragon to be vanquished, no demon left to slay. Max Kael was a man like any other man. Just a fuckin’ wrassler; freaky as a graveyard on a moonless night, but ain’t no accountin’ for that. That weren’t nothin’ to fear. Only difference was he beat me once before and, not long after, he got a pretty little belt to wear ‘round his waist. A belt I wanted. A belt I deserved… but more’n that, what I really wanted was sweet revenge.

I sat cross-legged on the edge of the hotel room bed, eyes glued to the television. December 1st, 2023. ReVival 40. My first time steppin’ in the ring with ol’ Max Kael. Boy, how that crowd did cheer. I was watchin’ the match back to front, over and over again, tryna find mistakes I’d made. I had that match won, y’know. Had it in the fuckin’ bag. Pocket sand in the goddang eye. You believe that shit?

Ain’t happenin’ again. First hand I see goin’ in a pocket’s gonna come out with broken fingers.

I’d spent the last few days with Vera, one way or another. Hours lost explorin’ a city neither of us wanted to be in, talkin’ and laughin’ and beatin’ ‘round the bush. She was a thunderstorm; a beautiful thing to behold from a good, safe distance, but once you were in the thick of it, you couldn’t help but get nervous. I weren’t never the type to get nervous ‘round the opposite sex, but I reckon she had a way about her.

I was tryna distract myself, I guess. Immerse myself in the match, ready myself for the war ahead, keep my thoughts pure as a spring mornin’. Weren’t no use. Even as I pressed the rewind button on the remote again, my mind was racin’ towards all sorts of ideas I oughtn’t have been havin’.

“Daytoooona?” she called in a sing-song voice. “Join me, won’t you?”

Vera was sittin’ on my balcony, sippin’ wine and smokin’ clove cigarettes. Lookin’ back now, I don’t know why I even invited her up to my room. I wasn’t tryna do nothin’. If anything, I was tryna be good. I’d even texted Bambi that mornin’, tellin’ her I loved her and I’d be thinkin’ of her the next night, that I’d win the Intense title for us. I didn’t get no response. I reckon the mind wanders when it ain’t got nowhere else to go, huh?

I walked out on the balcony and took a seat beside her. The air smelled as sweet as a slice of weddin’ cake and Vera sat there lookin’ over at me out the corners of her eyes. She had that knowin’ smile and I knew I was in trouble.

“I thought you were going to stay in there all night, Daytona,” she teased. “Is your stress and nerves really more interesting than moi?”

“Aw hell, honey, it ain’t like that,” I told her. “I was just… preppin’ is all. Tomorrow’s a big’un. Can’t be too prepared, right?”

One of her hands, polished red nails and all, slinked across the gap between our two chairs. It made its home on my thigh, tracin’ the featherlight shape of a  heart through my jeans. I tried to swallow, but I was frozen, locked in place, hypnotized.

“Non,” she said. “I suppose not. I still hate to see you like this, Daytona. So on edge. Like a kettle boiling over.”

She stood up and walked behind me, both hands on my shoulders, delicate fingers clutchin’ tight. She leaned over and I could smell her perfume; sugarspun lilacs and orange blossoms. Her lips pressed ‘gainst my jawline and then she whispered in my ear, “Shall we go inside?”

I didn’t say a word. I just followed her through those swingin’ doors, back into the bedroom, her hand takin’ mine and guidin’ me like a blind man through a daydream. She stopped at her purse and fished through it ‘fore she pulled out a small vial of white powder; I knew what it was ‘fore she gave me that sly look.

Two lines drawn out on a writin’ desk, one for her and one for me. Vera snorted hers first ‘fore she handed me the same straw she’d used.

I thought ‘bout sayin’ no.

I thought ‘bout sayin’ she should leave.

I thought ‘bout sayin’ I’m a recoverin’ addict. Thought about sayin’ I’m a married man. Thought about sayin’ a lot of things, but… I didn’t. I just stuck that straw up my nose and took my turn. This is the part where I’m ‘sposed to say I didn’t like it no more, that I regretted it instantly, that I’d lost my taste, but no. Absence just made the heart grow fonder. It felt like a million orgasms all at once, my brain gone rushin' towards a blissful abyss.

There he is.

There's my boy.

Welcome home.

A few minutes later, on the bed with her legs spread wide and me over top of her with my pants ‘round my ankles, Vera's lips were 'gainst my ear. Through a ragged breath, she said: “Tu m’appartiens désormais.”

I didn’t know what that meant then, but she weren’t wrong.

After we was done fuckin’, we lay tangled in the bedsheets with Vera’s head on my chest, her black hair all splayed out. On the bedside table, my phone buzzed and I looked over to see Bambi’s name scrawled ‘cross the screen. There was a pang of somethin’ in my chest, some unfurled heartache bubblin’ up from ‘neath the cocaine and afterglow, there and gone in the blink of an eye.

I didn’t answer.