The Swan

Now, I know that not everyone will have had this shared experience, for example, there are many humans who detest the wet. Whether that be the big wet of a bursting cloud soaking you through to your very bones, or the small wet of a ten minute walk in humid air, where you end up dampened in a way akin to something like former Universal Champion Rezin’s pissdrenched pants.

You’d be real damp, that’s what I’m saying.

So, this mental exercise is not for the wettening naysayers, this is for those who love the smell of chlorine in the morning, because I have the exact certainty that this is a shared experience, one to bond over, one to feel connected to.

The lazy river.

As a child, those rivers felt so vast, almost infinite. It makes sense, in a way, the minimum wage earning teen hands you a giant rubber ring, probably bigger than your tiny human body and asking you to ride this beast of a flotation device. So you try and struggle and jump like you're a Mario who lost his mushroom, until finally you sit atop your throne and get carried on a scenic voyage of plastic trees, the tide always pulling you forever forward. Once you are King of your Ring, there’s little else you have to do, just enjoy the ride, gently bobbing, passing by other beast slayers.

You end up feeling like you’ve ridden that river for days, like an adventurer with his machete cutting through unseen jungles. As a little one, you barely think for a second you pushed forward by inertia alone, letting the currents push you in one direction. You have very little say in where you are going or when it will end, you just have to go with the flow.

As you get a bit taller, a bit older, yet perhaps no wiser, you start to test the boundaries of the inertia of the river. You become a bit of a rebel perhaps, as you leap out of your royal seat and start to battle the current, not wanting to be told in which direction you are going, but to be your own person, choosing your own direction, even if that breaks the flow. Those still happy to bop away their lives in a trouble free fiefdom will pass you by and scowl, for you are not doing the right things, the things the society believe are the proper behaviour on this enmoistened occasion.

That’s where the true fork of the river opens up.

Are you content to just let the currents push you along for the rest of your days, meeting the expectations put upon you by the society you exist in? It can be a comfortable life. A life without challenges, without thoughts, without questions, merely flow. Beautiful weather, relaxing scenes, no worries, no one staring, no one questioning. You fit the agreed upon norms and you are awarded with a beautiful stress free life. Maybe once every so often a bad thought passes your brain, you start to wonder if this is all there should be, if there isn’t more to your time in this world.

Don’t hold onto that thought for too long though, you may become the naughty of the river if you question society too much.

You’ve heard that people who turn left on the river are never seen again, best not get too many questioning eyes in your direction, best to keep swirling in the stream.

—

Anyone who had followed the palace intrigue of Farthington Manor had known that Phil Atken and Cecilworth Farthington’s relationship had become almost entirely fractured the second that Farthington stuck his sticky hand in the glue pot, back at Culture Shock 2023. Atken, the former Universal Champion, and the brain behind the entire Glue-universe, had arrived in PRIME to avenge his past, to create a name feared and not mocked, to take down the perceived bullies and buriers of his past and create something new. A PRIME focused on exciting young talent, a PRIME where the old guard don’t whack-a-mole down any wrestler who starts to develop a fandom.

When a company comes back, it can be something of a beacon to the old guard of grapples. A place where they see the opportunity for a few more big pay days and the bright glow of a Super Trouper down upon them. Very little in this category see it as an opportunity to give back to the young fans then, who have become incredible talents now. It’s a very egocentric moment and Phil Atken had seen it happen time and time again, whether that be as a young talent starting out and trying to claw his way to some recognition, or as in his time out of the industry, as a father of two, who would seeing it in passing on television flipping through channels to get to whatever Survivor season Mrs. Farthington and the Glue-ettes were awaiting the viewing of.

It’s easy to become embittered and cynical when you have your heart ripped out and stomped upon by the industry, which is why it was all the more surprising that at the peak of his jaded era, Philip Martin Atken had decided to bring a new protege into the wrestling world, an early 20s backyard wrestling billionaire who had fucked with his family reputation one too many times and had been left to fend for himself in the wild west of the American independent wrestling scene, where sometimes there are zombies.

To Atken, the young Farthington was everything he thought should be praised in the wrestling game, a natural talent, resilient, determined and more than anything else, incredibly malleable. He could be molded without question, absorbing every tip or trick that Phil’s group of allies could provide.

Even during Atken’s decade away from the business, he kept track of Cecilworth’s progress, the plaudits and accolades allowed for even one of humanity’s bitter beings to feel moments of pride.

So, to go from that to the point that Cecilworth had stabbed a fork in Phil’s skull in a fit of madness during a Glue power struggle in the lead up to the Almasy Final at Colossus was as confusing to every direct party involved as it was to anyone who heard the rumblings of the use from the ole rumour tree.

Dirk Dickwood and Hank had remained to peacekeepers, clearly not happy at Cecilworth’s fork murder, but also with an understanding that both men came from stubborn, temper-driven backgrounds. It was music to both men’s ears when they heard that Phil and Cecilworth were willing to have a true conversation and as they took their seats at the Grand Table of the Farthington Manor Ballroom, Cecilworth and Phil were already sitting directly opposite each other, words not yet spoken.

Dirk decided his role was to be a facilitator and gestured for the former Universal Champion, Atken, to make the first move. A small smirk on his face, it was clear it wasn’t going to be a message in the lovey dovey camp.

“So, finally deciding to stop pretending with that “all my limbs exploded” bullshit? You gonna stop stealing FLAMBERGE’s spotlight too, bud?”

The minute “bud” exited Atken’s mouth, Cecilworth winced a little, he knew he only threw the “bud” around in his more hostile conversations, like an aggressive Canadian.

“You’re right, Phil, is that what you wanted to hear? You were right, you are right, and you know what, I’m certain you will be right in the future. I didn’t come here to have a pissing contest, we both know that’s more Bandit business than glue. I just want to fix whatever this has become.”

The sincerity in Farthington’s voice caught Atken off guard, for months, he’d been used to engaging in a war of passive aggression with Farthington, but Farthington sounded… real… and that was not something Phil had often seen.

“You got too caught up in your past with JCH, you know that, right? You tried to force it. Be what you were, not what you are now, which is actually much better in my book. You wanted to be the measuring stick again and you ran yourself ragged to do it. TAL, Youngblood, Hanlon, Avalon… no shortcuts… no devious tricks, pure wrestling. It was your hubris that thought you could walk into a handicap match at Colossus, with full knowledge of exactly that, and not even try to counter it. You have been a damn fool ever since…”

Unusual for Farthington, he wasn’t licking his lips, relishing the chance for a counter volley, he was sitting patiently and listening, nodding and agreeing with all the points made. He knew exactly what Atken was about to say and jumped in with agreement.

“Ever since Max? Yeah, I know. The connection to the past dragged me back there.”

Atken chuckled, “Max can wait, Glue has big plans for your would-be murderer, I’m not saying to forget him, just don’t get too distracted by your supposed former friend rising from his grave, his time will come. First though, I think the only appropriate apology for this…” Atken points to the scar where a fork may have entered his temple, “...is to help Glue settle a few of our outstanding scores that have been a little too outstanding for a little too long.”

Cecilworth shifts uncomfortably in his sheet, clearly not entirely confident in himself. If he was, he probably wouldn’t have hid in the conga line for two weeks and then pretended he was horrifically injured for a month after. Confident people tend not to do such things.

“It’s going to be tough to get back on the horse, especially the big fucking one that Troy has given you, but I think I have a plan on how we move forwards. It’s not about disregarding the past, it’s about harnessing it into something new. A fusion of the best elements of Farthington, you can’t stay as the ugly duckling for too long, you have it in you to evolve.”

Clearly in a “listening mode” Cecilworth once again nods in agreement with Atken, “so, Phil, where do we start…”

“I’ve got something in mind”

—

In the United Kingdom, it’s always amused me that the Royal Family own all the swans. A lil Cecil growing up, every time my father or mummy would tell me “The Queen owns the swans”, my brain would line up with all these interesting images of the reasons why.

A Swan Based Buffet.

Swan Jousting.

Swan Ballet (with real swans)

Swan Boating (see above)

I mean I could continue to list incredibly stupid swan based ideas that little Cecilworth had, but I don’t think anyone has a spare thirty hours, so we’ll just draw the line there.

There is something interesting about the image of swans. We often equate them with beauty, and for that I cite the court filings on “the ugly duckling”, these supposed majestic creatures that are a word synonymous with projection. It’s something that doesn’t really get questioned, swans are the fancy bois of the bird world.

Yet, when you actually take an interest, when you actually take the character of who these birds actually are, and what they are capable of, a very different picture is painted. I’ll return to that in a moment.

See, here’s the thing. I think that to PRIME, me and my friends who walk the path of icky sticky light, we are viewed as PRIME's swans. Fancy bois, protected by the crown. We could go out there and fight some of the most brutal contests in company history…

Oh wait, we did! We even killed a car once but we arranged for its funeral because we are very respectful men.

…no, but it’s true, no matter how broken, bloodied and bruised our opponents become at our hands, no matter how much gold we’ve claimed in this company, no matter how many of PRIME’s “big beasts” that we have conquered, the lazy of this company, of which there are many, only see us as the effete swans in the protection of The Queen.

I could show you FLAMBERGE’s endurance against Ivan Stanislav, his resilience, the fact he refused to quit, to stop. He had his own history he wanted to write, he became The Triple Crown in that moment

I could show you Hayes Hanlon stabbing Jared Sykes right in the back just because he thought it would get him back on the road to Universal Championship glory.

I could show you every single heartbreaking moment of the current dust up between Joe and Sid, that comes not from apathy but from passion, intense passion to prove themselves in their own ways.

These are not pampered men, these are killers who are passionate about their owned continued success. They'd murder their own pets if they thought it'd give them an edge. I'm not convinced Joe hasn't.

Give these stallions an opening at your own peril, look down upon them at your own peril. It happens time and time again. Off hand remarks, sarcasm, put downs from those who claim to possess the heart of PRIME.

Look at us as the Crown Protected Swans, if you wish, all that I ask from you is to think again why swans are protected.

See, from my understanding, swans are vicious beasts when they sense a threat. Horrible fiends that can snap a large man’s arm in twain without a single thought. Protective of their own and willing to take any measure to provide that security.

The hard men of PRIME, which is a laughable concept to start with, but the hard men of PRIME, take things lightly at your own peril.

They’ll only be one group laughing as the steel cable grips your neck, your arm, your leg…

As you are rolled into the ambulance, you’ll finally realise The Queen wasn’t protecting us from you, reality will normalise and you will be without a career.

Such is the way.

—

Cecilworth’s business for the day was done. It seemed that the rift between The Financier and The Founder was making its first steps towards mending itself, and that felt like a pretty successful day for a man likely to get murdered in the chest and other body parts by an over seven foot beast in a week’s time. A skip had developed in Cecilworth’s step, a grin of glee on his fancy face, the eye twinkling a little bit more as he roamed the oak laden corridors of his childhood home.

It made sense, a weight had been lifted and for a moment, all thoughts about his potential murder at the hands of any member of the PRIME roster who would be insane enough to take a business proposal from Max Kael at face value. He was home, he was safe.

The problem with gleefully skipping around a very large estate is that you often aren’t paying much attention to where you are actually going. Cecilworth, for his part, had always stayed away from the South Wing of Farthington Manor since he had become the sole inheritor of the property. That was the domain where his father, Lord Farthington, had roamed and Cecilworth had no desire to relive his past memories. There was no good to be had in entering the South Wing, so he never did.

Until today.

Today he got taken by the flow, the fork path chosen for him, no rebellion, only inertia and as his brain caught up to his surroundings, he stood in front a small but golden gilded door that Cecilworth did not recall seeing before, not in his many years living in the manor as a child. Whether he had just never noticed it, or it was something added when Cecilworth was exiled to America, he now had a curiosity in front of him.

He wasn’t a cat, so surely it wouldn’t be able to kill him.

The headphones that had sat upon Cecilworth’s skull as he had his jolly jaunt around the manor were now lowered around his neck, the music that had protected him from the outside world had now been silenced. No noise, no distraction, just Cecilworth and this unusual door.

Cecilworth started to chide himself as he reached out to open the door, the voices in his head yelled rather upsetting messages, such as “Daddy wouldn’t like this”, “always ask daddy first”... and for a moment, Cecilworth listened to them. His hand dropped, and he was ready to turn away from the Golden Gilded Gate. Has hand upon his headphones, ready to lift them back up to his head but he is stopped not by the voices internal this time, but by a force from the outside, calling out from the entrance of the South Wing.

“He’s dead now, you deserve to know”

Cecilworth can’t look away from the door, he can’t even tell who is talking to him. Could be Dirk… maybe Phil, but surely he’d have heard Phil’s squeaky wheels… whoever it was, they were right in Cecilworth’s mind. This was his house now, these were his doors, he could open whatever he damn well pleases.

A hand on the door, a click, a thud and a screech and presto, the gate was open, inviting Cecilworth down a spiral staircase.

Cecilworth peers down, and from the little he sees, a response is already provoked.

“What the fuu..”

—

My life has been spent fighting monsters, both imagined and real. The ones under my bed and the ones that put me to bed.

I spent years of my life, of my career, in the city of Chicago. I saw all manner of unspeakable things happen in that town, in what I thought was my life’s work. People were maimed, they were broken, they were humiliated, they were destroyed mentally, emotionally. Families were torn apart, all for the twisted pleasure of a small viewing audience.

Think about the kind of people who swing barbed wire baseball bats with glee, those who kidnap children effortlessly, those who leave their spouses for dead, those who were willing to murder in the ring, those who did murder in the ring.

It’s a past I’ve been trying to pretend didn’t happen, Hessian, some of it is through heartbreak, some through a determination to move on, and it is always important to move forward in this industry. The buzzsaws are always to our backs, we stop for one second and we are consumed, little chance of escape as we get gripped by the sharpest teeth in PRIME, which I can now use as an analogy rather than in a physical sense as, the company has become a lot more pleasant recently.

I think I moved on a little too much though, Big Hess. I forgot myself. I forgot what I am capable of.

See, you are terrifying, you are massive, you could crush me with your big meaty frame in seconds if given the chance. I should be nothing but a plaything for you. You could scoop me into a ball and slam dunk me into the ground like I was a Looney Tunes cartoon. In the realm of the outside eye, this should not even be a contest.

Yet, yet, there is hope for me avoiding my future as a sweet bee-ball. Something I haven’t tapped into for a long time, the old me, the old ways. For too long, I’ve been taken by the current. It’s time to fight the tide.

You see, Hessaroo, I’ve outlined all the horrible things I’ve seen in my career, in my past, the things I want to forget.

All those titans, all those behemoths, committing unspeakable acts for the glee of the many and they only had one thing they feared. One being that they didn’t dare to step into the ring because they knew if they did, a future in the business was far from assured.

Me. 

So, just in case you aren’t familiar, Mr. Murder Machine, despite our past introductions, I don’t think we’ve yet done our formalities.

Nice to meet you, Hessian, let me re-introduce myself.

I’m a swan.

I snap limbs.