The Illusions and Glory of a Fall

Culture Shock, 2024. 

Ding Ding Ding!

In what can only be described as a miracle, or perhaps an early Christmas, Harley has just won the Alias Title.

It's unbelievable, and Harley would agree.

Because as he stands at the center point of that wrestling ring, with a referee standing near him with a championship title cradled in his arms, Harley can't remember anything that led up to this moment.

Blackness - and then this.

A referee handing him a championship belt for winning a match that he could have sworn - at least in that very moment - he wasn't a part of. Beyond the lack of memories for a match that had to of just concluded minutes before, the lack of body sweat, odor, and aches only aided to the suspicions.

And then there were other things.

It's the Millenium Stadium - for sure - and all of its seats are filled with PRIME's most loyal fanbase - but they all seem to be motionless.

Silent. 

Stoic. 

As the referee, grinning all the way to the uncanny valley, holds out the championship title for Harley to take possession, there's also one more notable oddity.

The music.

"Real Me" - Monster Siren. 

This isn't Harley's music.

Harley looks back up at the referee, and he's no longer smiling.

In fact, he looks troubled; the kind of expression that someone would have if they had to break some really, really shitty news to someone. Harley opens his mouth and tries to question it all, but his voice is pushed back down his throat when Coral Avalon's theme music gets louder, and louder, and louder until it's at a piercing level. Harley quickly covers his ears, looks down, and sees that the referee's hands are now empty.

Yep, that's about the point that I recognized all of this was bullshit. 

And just about the time that my bullshit recognition meter started buzzin' about, I went back into nothingness land for who knows how long. 

I didn't know what actually led to that nothingness until I heard someone snapping their fingers, and then a voice that echoed from above like I was casually sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool. It was a young lady, and she said -- 

"Mr. Walker, do you know where you are right now?"

Pause. 

In reality, Harley was just crossing through the curtain and into gorilla position when he started to feel a little too light on his feet.

With his hands placed on his hips, he could feel a shift in balance, like an earthquake that only he could feel.

Harley has always been a stubborn boy though, and the only thing that made sense was to push through the abnormalities, get away from all of the surrounding noise, lock himself inside of his dressing room, and toss back a couple of cocktails.

Everything, even all of this, would make sense after that.

But as Harley took another step, the ground beneath him disappeared.

Then something hit my nostrils that smelled like bacon and fuckin' adrenaline.

Next thing I saw... was that pretty face.

"Mr. Walker? Can you hear me, dear?"

Harley, initially a crumbled bag of bones in the fetal position on the concrete, lets out a huge gasp as he sits back up as quickly as The Undertaker.

"Well, hi there good lookin'!" Harley winks at the gorgeous blonde-haired, blue-eyed EMT that just administered smelling salts to Lightning Boy. "Goddamn almighty, I feel like I could lift the universe right now."

"Harley, my name is Sandra. You had yourself a little fall. Do you remember that?"

Harley doesn't say anything at first, still seemingly stuck in that blue-eyed daze.

"Harley?"

"Yes ma'am, I'm yours."

The two medical assistants behind Sandra start to laugh, which only makes it harder for Sandra herself to maintain a serious expression. "You fell, and hit your head pretty good in the process. We're just gonna make sure that you're OK."

"Am now, my lady." Harley says with a smile. "Now come on, help my old ass up and find me a cigarette and my championship belt. Then, we can talk about what kind of booze and food you like so I can treat that cuteness to some of both of them things."

Harley attempts to get back to his feet, but Sandra lightly places her hands on his shoulders. "I'm not sure where your championship belt is, and we're gonna hold off on the smoking and getting back on your feet, just for now, until we're certain that you're good to go. Sound good?"

"I mean..." Harley shrugs his shoulders. "I ain't against the hard-to-get shit, I 'spose, but the championship belt's got to be somewhere close. I just won the damn thing after all."

That's when Cock Block Johnson came into view. 

Sylvester, about as unbeknownst as I am, with three post-match nips of Jack Daniels in his hands. 

He sees me laid out on my ass, and it's just instinctually accelerated panic from there, son. The joy in his face drains away, drops all of my liquor, and starts a'runnin like every square inch of his existence counted on it. 

"Harley?! Holy shit, what happened?!"

Sly slides knees-first toward the EMTs and Harley, as if he was trying to be safe at home.

Sandra immediately holds up her hand. "I'm sorry, who are you?"

"I'm his friend, his agent, I'm his..."

You could tell the kid was legitimately concerned for me. I'll give him that.

But boy, what a blubbering son of a bitch he was. 

Sly swallows back the vomit making its way through his esophagus. "I'm, like, his assistant. Sylvester Mango. I literally just saw him before his match. What the hell happened?"

"He took a pretty good fall."

Sly turns toward Harley. "You good buddy? You trip or something?"

The EMT follows up for Harley. "He hit his head a bit, and appears to be a little loopy, so we're going to get him over to the local hospital to get checked out."

"Stop." Harley says, as he holds up a finger. "Did you say that I was going to a hospital?"

Sylvester reassures him. "They just want to make sure that everything is tickin' as it should upstairs, Harley. You apparently hit your head when you fell."

Harley's finger is still up which, in this case, means that he isn't satisfied with that. In fact, he seems surprised.

"So, let me get this shit right. I win the biggest match of my life, have a little slippy dippy because who the fuck wouldn't after rasslin' a hoss like that, offer this classy piece of tail an all-night European adventure that may or may not include a little bit of extra tail at the tail end, and yall' wanna take me to get my head checked?"

The confusion starts to settle in, and that's obvious from the silence.

Sandra the EMT looks at Sylvester.

Sylvester looks at Sandra the EMT.

Harley looks at both of them - his eyes darting back and forth, before he reaches a boiling point.

"What the hell is goin' on here?"

----------------------

You can learn a lot about how powerful your own brain is when you've overworked it.

If not handled properly, it can begin to create illusions, hoss.

It can reverse time, or eliminate it completely, just for the sake of protecting you. 

Even if the illusion is a lie. 

It can tell you the things that you want to hear - even if those things never really happened. 

In this case, my brain seemed to favor the illusion over the reality.

----------------------

"Harley..." Sylvester attempts to explain. "You... didn't win. I mean, it was an incredible fight. You put the best of yourself out there and kept everyone out there on the edge of their seats, but..."

Harley stares back at his assistant in disbelief.

"What do you mean?"

Sly glances over at the EMTs, who are now suspended by their own confusion as well.

"I mean that you lost, Harley. Coral Avalon retained the Alias Title."

A fifth EMT appears behind the rest of the pack, rolling a gurney with him. Sandra notices and tries to regain control of the situation.

"Alrighty, Mr. Walker, we're just gonna help you get on this stretcher right here..."

Harley snaps back at the EMT. "Don't. Sylvester... what does that mean."

"I don't know how else to explain it to you, Harley." Sly holds his hands up. "You had fifteen minutes, he had your wrist locked up to where you couldn't get out, and the time expired. So, you unfortunately lost the match because of that."

"So..." Sylvester knows it's coming and closes his eyes to hold it together. "What does all of that mean, Sly? Stop speaking in fuckin' limericks and tell me what you're tryin' to say!"

The EMT finally tries to help. "What he's tryin' to say is..."

Harley stops her, once again, by simply holding up his index finger. "Not talkin' to you. Not once in my entire life have I ever offered to pay for dinner and drinks only for the gal to counter-offer with a trip to Dr. Kevorkian's emergency room."

"Dr. Kevorkian?" EMT questions, but Sly has had enough.

"Okay, for the love of Christ, you lost, Harley, okay? You LOST."

"Fine. Jesus Christ. I get it. Where's my belt though?"

"You have to WIN the match to WIN the belt, Harley.

That's when it finally fuckin' hit me. 

It was going to take a lot more than drinks and food to get into Nurse Kevorkian's pants. 

"Alright, everyone just relax for one hot second here. Here's what we're going to do. Sly, you fuckin' listenin' to me?"

"Yes, Harley."

"Sally?"

"It's Sandra, but yes, I'm listenin."

"Good. You're going to take me to the hospital and do whatever you have to do with my head. Sly, you're going to find that championship belt that I managed to lose through all of this bullshit. Shondra, what's the hospital called that we're goin' to?"

Sandra lets out an audible exhale, and then smiles at Harley. "HMT Sancta Maria."

"There we go. Whatever the hell she just said? You go there, once you find the championship belt, and then we will link up for the next course of action. Sly..."

Harley aggressively grabs Sly's arms and pulls him in close. "...I appreciate you tellin' me what's goin' on, but don't you worry about a goddamn thing because... who's the guy that took the championship belt?"

"It's Coral Avalon!" The EMT unexpectedly shouts - even shocking herself a bit. "And he retained his title after beating you."

Harley squints his eyes towards the EMT. "I don't know what the fuck you just said, but just know that it sounded like poison if poison had a sound. Sly, you still payin' attention, son?"

At this point, the EMTs are helping Harley get back to his feet just long enough to get his rear-end on the gurney. They manage to do all of this while Harley continues to fire off instructions towards a completely helpless Slyvester, who is starting to question what life is.

"The guy that took the damn belt? He's only got so much square footage to run before we're right up his country ass. Stay diligent, stay greasy, and don't let them think that either of us are bitch ass pussies."

Harley is now on the gurney, his head peacefully resting against a pillow and his hands crossed over one another on his chest. He holds a thumbs up. "Alright, my lady, you can take me away with you."

Sandra rolls her eyes and starts pushing the gurney through gorilla position and down the corridor that leads to the garage, where an ambulance is parked and waiting. "I will be taking you to the hospital, Mr. Walker, and then a doctor will take over from there." "Whatever you say, beautiful."

----------------------

'Course, a little bit of rest and a new sunrise proved a few things -

I most definitely lost. 

Coral was definitely still in possession of the Alias title, and rightfully so.

And my illusions? They might be tied to my head crashing into concrete, but they're also tied to the fact that I wanted that title. 

I wanted it so bad that my brain tried to eliminate any chance of losing. 

It created an illusion that prevented any of the static in between from getting in the way of the favorable result - 

According to this fucked up brain of mine, I was supposed to win. 

Yet, that didn't happen. Why is that?

Because I respected the illusion far more than I respected the challenge that lay before me, son.

And that's when the static took my country ass for a ride I won't soon forget. 

And as I sit here, an example of the proving grounds, I recognize that no matter how much I sob on about the illusions I allowed myself to get trapped inside of, the challenges never recede - in fact, they evolve. 

They become The Emerald Apex, in the flesh. 

A man like that? He not only understands the golden traditions of this sport - he is the sport. 

Just like Coral. 

If I am ever going to conquer these Goddamn illusions, I must begin to understand these traditions.

I must become the sport, son. ----------------------

London England HMT Sancta Maria Medical ReVival 46 - Two days to go...

 

I was a goddamn mess.

Blood sugar levels were out of whack, blood pressure was high enough for my heart to actually explode. 

I had enough liquor in me to kill an entire farm's livestock, which is turn made me as dehydrated as the Sahara. 

Because of that, I became their little American test dummy until they were finally content with my condition. 

Even then, they brought up the one thing that I didn't want to hear - and this time, it wasn't Coral Avalon's music. 

This time, they questioned what an old man was doing inside of a wrestling ring. 

And in that moment, I didn't have an answer. ----------------------

Harley walks through the sliding glass entrance doors of the hospital, holding his discharge papers in his hand, and walks over towards Sylvester's parked car. He opens up the passenger side door, tosses the papers on the floorboard, and gets in. Once he shuts the door, Sylvester drives out of the hospital parking lot and onto the main road.

The silence is tense at first, until Harley decides to break it.

"Life is one fast-lane motherfucker, ain't it? One minute you're a young stallion and then the next, you've got a nurse trying to shove an ice-cold steel commode underneath you before you shit yourself. All of that for what... to lose..."

"Well..."

Sly, as always, attempts to find the silver lining.

"I've heard several people say that it was one of their favorite matches, you and Coral. You did the best you---"

"Oh, stuff that up someone else's ass. I looked like old dog shit, because I am old dog shit. Coral and his boys were probably talkin' a bunch of shit about me in the back afterwards, and I 'spose I'd do the same thing."

"You don't know that for certain."

"Yeah?" Harley whips his head towards Sly. "And you don't either. But I'll tell you what I do know for certain - I ain't out here to be embarrassed like I was at the fuckin' fairgrounds - when Myles had me by the balls. I'm better than that - I'm better than what Coral had in front of him."

Slyvester remained quiet, only because he didn't know what to say. Still quite in the vanilla stages, Sly wasn't sure what he could get away with saying without risking a black eye or a few teeth in the process. Like Harley, he also didn't come all of this way to be a son of bitchin' pussy. And because of that, it was time for Sly to speak his mind.

"You know what, Harley? I think you're better than that too - but you know what gets in the way of all of that?"

Harley continues to listen, as he looks out towards the London skyline.

"You. You get in the way of that."

Suddenly, Harley doesn't care about the skyline.

Now, he cares about what Sly said.

"Whatcha mean by that, boy?"

Sly doesn't hesitate. In fact, he goes all in.

"I mean the alcohol, the partying, the smoking, the late nights - if you're even remotely right about these people, that they think that you're nothing but an old piece of shit and it truly bothers you, then the only thing that you can do is break tradition, Harley. For as much as you respect someone like Coral, or even Kuroyama, your traditions don't align with their traditions because you add all of this garbage on top of it."

Sly reaches over and presses the button that opens up the glove compartment. As the door drops open, multiple empty nip bottles of liquor are exposed. "This is not part of their tradition, so how could you possibly expect yourself to become what you want to become if you're not willing to make a compromise? You have to care - and not just about your dreams. You have to care about yourself, Harley."

Harley doesn't say anything at first. Instead, he soaks up Sly's honesty for a moment.

This gives Sly enough of a go-ahead to resume.

"All I am asking is that you hear me on this. You let me get you to where you want to be and I promise, Kerry Kuroyama will be just another step in your path towards the greatness that you deserve - the greatness that you've worked your ass off for. We just need to step away from your traditions, study the traditions of the great ones that you'll have to overcome and overwhelm, and the rest will come with time."

"Yeah?"

Harley pulls a cigarette out from the inside pocket of his jacket and clips it between his lips.

"And how do you suppose we get started on that, son?"

Then, Sly does something that you'd never expect him to do.

He yanks the cigarette away from Harley's lips and tosses it out the window.

"...It's going to take work, and discipline, and... acceptance." 

Sly doesn't look back at Harley, far too fearful that he'd turn his face right into five calloused knuckles.

But matter how fearful he felt in that moment, he knew what he said was right.

Harley then rolls up his window, rests head back, and lets out a little chuckle.

"Well... I guess I've accepted then."

And with that, Sly slowly nods with a half-smile just faintly starting to appear on his face, as he continues to drive down the interstate towards the O2 Arena.

----------------------

I've spent most of my life spiraling out of control, because it became a part of how I earned a living.

Nobody was interested in seeing a sober stuntman just do his job - clock in and clock out. 

They were there for the shit circus that came along with it. It was exciting to see whether or not Lightning Boy was going to show up for his big events and if he did show up, it was even more exciting to see how he was going to make it through all of it with all of his bones intact. 

The world wanted to see a hopeless man at his most hopeless state, because that was content. That was the movie. That was the drama. And without all of that to go along with it, I was just another old fuck attempting to live out a suicidal dream that barely anyone ever understood. 

I've quickly learned that PRIME is not the shit circus that I'm used to. 

It's filled with a bunch of athletes that committed to their dreams and let their illusions go by the wayside. 

It's filled with champions and Mt. Rushmore archetypes that believed in their glory and went for it. 

I've spent most of my life spiraling out of control - but that stops now.

For better or for worse - 

For my glory.