The Second Great Awakening: Hollow Man

With a bang and a whimper, this was the way the tour ended for Hessian. No champagne toasts celebrating the landmark 50th episode of ReVival, no congratulatory huddles or rah-rah speeches. Just another cheap chairshot, another loss, another lesson learned. While the shooting stars of PRIME blazed their trail across western Europe, blowing up every city and the wrestling scene as a whole, the giant felt like a small piece of asteroid that had broken off and fizzled out into the ether. Much like the floating shard of bone beneath the skin of his elbow.

Shoulders slumped and head hung low, nursing a swollen lump the size of a golf ball, ‘The Murder Show’ had made the walk of shame to the trainer’s room after being humbled by Farthington. The third loss in as many shows.

“Good news is your arm’s not broken, but the olecranon is fractured,” Dr. Astrid Fihlguud concluded. “Bad news is even if you were booked for the pay-per-view, I wouldn’t clear you to compete. You’re headed home.”

Despondent, he let her wrap the elbow in cold packs and bandages without a fuss until the wound looked far more grossly distended than it was. Then she handed him a box of spare packs and a sling along with her orders.

“Swap these out daily then switch to the sling once the swelling goes down. I’ll refer you to our in-house orthopedic surgeon, Doctor Thelonious Cottonbottom, in Vegas. His office will be in touch in the next couple weeks to schedule an appointment and we’ll see about removing the bone fragment.”

Von Kelsig jolted suddenly, snapped out of his deadened gaze by a flash of light, as Astrid took him by the chin and checked his pupils. “How’s the head?” she asked, giving him a moment to blink away the intrusive phosphenes dancing in his vision before waving a finger across his line of sight and examining his response.

“Much better, thanks,” he winced, diligently following her finger. “Concussion’s all cleared up.”

“Good. As a veteran I expect you to do a better job of protecting yourself in the ring, and if I catch wind of any more antics like the stunt you pulled in Barcelona? I’ll bench you indefinitely. Is that clear?”

His skin prickled as a wave of anger washed over him. He bit his tongue to stifle the outburst and let out a long, heavy exhalation through his nostrils instead. Defending his actions and blaming his opponents for the part they had played in his altered state, especially to Dr. Fihlguud, was a fruitless endeavor. As seasoned as he was, he of all people should have known better than to ignore medical advice and take his frustrations out in public. Whether he felt himself or not, the buck stopped with him. Rob Williams’s condition meant he was practically knocking at death’s door, yet Von Kelsig was the one who had shown his ass for much less.

“Understood, ma’am,” Hessian murmured, acknowledging his poor form.

“Very good,” Astrid nodded, motioning to the door. “Cottonbottom will be in touch soon, take care of yourself.”

A cold, stabbing pulse flared up in his elbow as he made his way out of the Wizink Center back to his tour bus. He stepped aboard the Prevost and stopped suddenly, realizing he had forgotten to ask about painkillers. Glancing back at the arena, Von Kelsig weighed up the decision to tread all the way back, but the nagging discomfort in his arm was growing stronger the more he moved. Much to his ire, he bowed his head in defeat and cursed bitterly.

Sat behind the wheel, oblivious to Hessian’s bloated arm, the bus driver had been staring into his lap with a similarly dejected look to that of the giant. When he heard the profanity uttered he flinched as though he were being scolded. ‘The Murder Show’ noticed the reaction out of the corner of his eye.

“You okay Stevie?” he inquired gently, despite his own misery. “What’s wrong?”

The silver-haired driver cleared his throat and gave a quick, frantic nod. “Fine, fine, yea-..ah, fuck. No. Not fine. I’m fucked,” he groaned, eyes glazing over as he sat up straight in his seat and hid them behind his palms.

“Hey, look at me,” Von Kelsig requested firmly. “What’s going on? Is everything alright?”

Stevie took a deep breath as he dragged his hands down his face, eyebrows fluttering nervously. “I just got off the phone with my boss…about that all-nighter in Barcelona. Apparently someone reported me. Gross misconduct, he said. I’ve been let go..”

“What?!” Hessian bellowed in disbelief, causing Stevie to flinch again. “You’ve been fired??”

“I don’t get it,” the driver lamented, “I didn’t do anything wrong. Had some drinks, flirted with some senoritas, maybe took the piss out a couple people, but it was all in good fun. No one got hurt. I was with you the whole time, was I out of line?”

“No, not at all,” the giant assured him with a shake of the head, all the while struggling to pull together memories from the night in question. “I mean, I don’t remember much to be honest, but I damn sure don’t recall anything that warrants someone losing their damn livelihood.”

“Thank you!” Stevie cried, whipped his hands up in the air with gratified relief. “Glad someone sees sense..”

“Gimme your boss’s number,” Von Kelsig insisted, pulling his personal cell from his pocket. “We’re gonna get to the bottom of this right now.”

Stevie smiled politely but waved off the kind gesture. “I appreciate it, really, but it won’t do any good. Company’s zero tolerance, and there’s no way to find out who submitted the complaint. Management wouldn’t act on a bullshit whim so whoever called it in must’ve made a worthy case.”

“Goddamnit, this doesn’t make any sense,” the giant grumbled, wondering if he was more to blame. Given his actions in the rock club it was entirely plausible. He noticed a familiar squat figure approaching the bus from the arena.

Clad in his usual finery, with a small kit bag slung over his shoulder, Cyril Salazar waddled with purpose towards them. His expression was drawn taut as he locked eyes with his charge through the massive windshield and shouted something inaudible, beckoning Von Kelsig outside as he veered away from the Prevost towards a production truck parked beside them.

“Grab us a couple drinks, I’ll be back in a minute,” Von Kelsig said as he cradled his aching arm.

“Jesus Christ, what happened to you??” Stevie blurted, noticing the huge ball of bandaging for the first time and feeling even guiltier for having bothered an injured man.

Hessian deflected his concern. “Don’t worry about it, just pour me a whisky,” he said as he stepped off the bus again.

Cyril waited nearby, perched on the front bumper of the production truck with arms crossed, eyes narrowed and lips pursed as ‘The Murder Show’ lumbered tenderly over to him. “Forget something?” he called out, bringing a pillbox into view and offering it up, unfazed by the bulky arm. “Doc says you can take these if you need ‘em.”

Von Kelsig snatched the painkillers and pocketed them. “Nevermind that, we just lost our driver.”

“No shit,” Cyril replied, pointing back at the arena. “PRIME just got the call from the touring company, Doug filled me in. Pack your bags, they’re sending a car to take us to the airport.”

“Do they know who’s behind this?”

“What does that matter?? When you caught that concussion you were told to rest! I told you to take it easy, but no, you disappeared into the middle of fucking Barcelona city center!”

“I wasn’t in my right mind, Cyril..”

“That’s not the issue,” the dwarf barked, careful not to raise his voice too much. “I get that. What I don’t get is our fucking bus driver leading you down the garden path when the only reason he was even out there is because I asked him to come help me find you! What the fuck was he thinking?? You’re a multi-million dollar asset for the biggest wrestling company in the world, wandering around a foreign city with a head injury…and instead of bringing you back he just follows you around on your rampage like it’s a happy hour?! Naw, that ain’t happening, fuck that.”

Cyril’s chest was puffed up, his small shoulders heaving, anger palpable. His vexation only fed Von Kelsig’s. “In the state I was in? Cyril, not even STRONK could have pulled me away from the warpath I was on. Stevie did the best thing possible; stayed with me and kept out of my way. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing out there! What if he ended up in my crosshairs too? God only knows how many incidents he must have smooth-talked me out of…I need to go in there and set things straight with management, he doesn’t deserve to be fired, not for looking out for me.”

“It’s too late for that. The tour operator was apoplectic, according to Doug. They can’t risk their reputation or their contracts with this kind of behavior, he’s done.” Cyril turned his attention to Hessian’s elbow, “and if it wasn’t for your injury we’d be stuck here until they sent out a replacement driver. I’ve to tell Mister Saunders to drive the bus back to the Octane and stay aboard ‘til it makes port back in the States. As for us, we’re flying home so you can get some goddamn rest.”

Cyril brushed past the giant, making for the Prevost.

“Wait,” Von Kelsig demanded, stopping Cyril in his tracks. “Let me tell him. You go get your things together then do me a solid and collect my stuff? This arm’s killing me..”

The dwarf sneered and waved the giant off with a snarl, storming over to the bus and disappearing inside. He marched through to the back, ignoring the sullen driver in the lounge, and started shoving his belongings back into his case. Von Kelsig craned his neck to the heavens and sighed wearily, trudging back onto the bus. Feeling the suspension bow, Stevie glanced expectantly up from his freshly poured glass.

Hessian shrugged hopelessly, grabbing his whisky and taking a seat opposite. “Not looking good I’m afraid,” he said, emptying the tumbler in one gulp. “You weren’t kidding about the zero tolerance. They want the bus back on the Octane, as soon as possible.”

“Figured as much,” Stevie said sorrowfully. “I’m really sorry about this.”

“No, this is on me,” Von Kelsig replied matter-of-factly, and after a pause held out his hand. “Here, gimme your phone.”

Stevie cocked his head, reaching hesitantly into his pocket while the giant coaxed him. “Wh-what for?” he asked apprehensively, producing his iPhone and unlocking the screen.

‘The Murder Show’ took the smartphone, tapped in a number and dialed. When his pocket vibrated he gave a satisfied nod, ended the call and handed the cell back to the confused driver.

“That’s my private number,” Von Kelsig revealed. “If you’re stuck for work when you get home, give me a call and I’ll set you up with something-”

“-no, you don’t have to do that, honestly-”

“-yes I do,” the giant replied sternly. “You wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for me. Save that number to your contacts and if you need to, use it. Whatever your salary is now, I’ll match it.”

“Are you sure?” Stevie asked, taken aback. “I mean, I really appreciate it, but I-”

“-look, I’ve been in this business for twenty years and this loop is the first time I’ve ever used a tour bus. Frankly this thing has been a godsend, and you’ve been great. You got us where we needed to be, on time and in one piece. I like the luxury of coming back from a match and collapsing straight into a big, comfortable bed without having to worry about how I’m getting to the next venue, especially with these injuries mounting up. When I get back home I’m gonna look into buying one of these coaches for myself, and I’m gonna need a driver.”

“Oh, well..if you put it like that..sounds pretty good actually,” Stevie timidly tapped on his phone screen, his mood picking back up. “Yeah, I’d be up for that, I like this job. Probably won’t be able to get work with any of the commercial lines after this anyway..”

“No sweat. I’ll even let you help me pick out a new bus,” Von Kelsig smirked.

Stevie gave a relieved chuckle, staring at the saved number as he brushed away the beads of sweat that had collected on his forehead. “I really appreciate this sir-”

“-Angelus. Call me Angelus.”

“Thank you, Angelus,” Stevie smiled.

A small voice cracked shrilly nearby, “you know that’s an anagram of ‘Anus Gel’, right??” The giant’s expression dropped and he leaned forward to look through to the back of the bus where Cyril was collecting luggage in a tizzy, having heard everything. Caught in Von Kelsig’s soured gaze, he bugged his eyes in retort, projecting every ounce of resentment that he could muster as he struggled with the bags. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

A big smile grew on Hessian’s face and he shrugged at Stevie. “You get used to that, eventually,” he grinned, then leaned back and grimaced, cradling his arm again.

Coming home after months on tour was a blessing and a curse. There was comfort in returning to the sprawling valley that belonged to him. Von Kelsig was the lord of it all and the whos, whats, wheres, whys and whens were still determined by him and him alone. Seeing the old wooden sign with ‘Parts Unknown’ branded into the timber filled him with nostalgic warmth.

On the other hand, however, it had grown less familiar in his absence. Without his former groundskeeper around to maintain the property the fields were overgrown with weeds and grass, as were the medians of every road and track snaking through the valley. The lake was also teeming with reeds, fronds and an influx of wild fowl. More turbines had been installed, cluttering the skyline and looming with invasive nonchalance, barely even spinning half the time. That pissed him off more than anything.

Hessian kept to Dr. Fihlguud’s instructions and Cyril’s insistence on rest, tending to his healing fracture and enjoying the peace of being back in his affluent castle mansion once again. The dwarf was enamored with the house that he had been handed the keys to. It was all porches, shutters and chimneys, left in immaculate condition by the previous tenants who had flitted back to the UK. A fresh lick of beige was all it took to bring the home to life, along with a mountainous order of furnishings and decorations that kept Cyril happy and busy while Von Kelsig rehabbed.

Stevie Saunders turned up exactly one week after their arrival, at the helm of a brand new Prevost X3, the same model that had carried them effortlessly through Europe. The PRIME logo was plastered across the outside of it along with an equally massive and imposing image of Hessian’s headshot and signature below. The custom interior was very similar to what they had experienced in the previous hire, with the exception of wall-to-wall onyx with gold marbled inlay and violet velvet upholstery on the seating and beds.

Stevie was offered, and graciously accepted, guest quarters in the main house. He was blown away seeing the Conquest Knight XV in person, and jumped at the chance to pilot the grass-cutters and tidy the place up.

It was just the three of them, but the place felt more alive than it had when it was swarming with hundreds of patrons. They barbecued, as was Cyril’s desire, shooting the shit and hanging out, even watching the pay-per-view together and coming unglued with Portugal and the rest of the world as Coral Avalon finally achieved his dream and became Universal Champion. Good times.

In the interim Von Kelsig waited patiently for the call from the orthopedic surgeon, then waited some more. He almost took it upon himself to make the call to them. Almost.

Cyril had been showing off the renovations and upgrades he had made to the barn next door to his new home when the bomb dropped and the world stopped turning. Much to Von Kelsig’s astonishment his old, ratty gym had been overhauled into a stark white state-of-the-art facility. A new ring had been shipped out by PRIME and was surrounded by a plethora of training equipment. The adjoining spaces had been emptied of old tools and mechanical paraphernalia from the bygone age of the theme park. Now it was dedicated to recovery, featuring every mod-con including a hyperbaric chamber, UV therapy station, infinity pool, ice bath, sauna and more.

“This place is incredible Cyril, I would never have thought of half of this,” the giant remarked during the tour, all the while tugging gently on a resistance band while his arm was in the sling.

“You’re gonna be fit as a fuckin’ fiddle in no time once they pull that piece of bone out your arm,” Cyril admitted with a Cheshire grin. “It’s about damn time we dragged you into the twenty-first century Angelus, the old salt routine isn’t gonna cut it any more. Speaking of which, wait until you see the studio.”

“The what-”

…beep-beep-beep, beeep beeep, beep-beep-beep…

…vvvvvvvt-vvvvvvt…vvvvvvvt-vvvvvvvt…

Their phones rumbled in unison, and at once they shared a look of confusion. The dueling notifications meant one thing and one thing only.

“Impossible,” Von Kelsig murmured, plucking his phone from his pocket. “I’m not due back for another-” he paused suddenly, shocked to his core, eyes wide in disbelief.

“Oh fuck,” Cyril gasped, clasping a hand over his mouth in horror as he pulled up the same message that the giant was reading. “No…no, no, no. There’s gotta be some kinda mistake, you’re on injured reserve…”

Ivan Stanislav vs. Hessian

There it was, in black and white and no word of a lie.

Hessian’s entire career, his life, flashed before his eyes. Twenty-plus years across several companies. All the training, battles, feuds, tournaments, titles and awards. His career had run parallel to ‘The Russian Bear’ through it all, and along with Jason Snow they were the last remnants of Primetime. But only two of the three were truly giants, behemoths that had outlived all the rest. The last of their kind, and they had never gone toe-to-toe. Not once in over two decades.

‘The Murder Show’ found himself breathless, the room devoid of all air. He was untethered from reality. This was a moment in time, like the JFK assassination or the attack on the twin towers. He would never forget where he was on the day they announced Ivan Stanislav versus Hessian.

Of course that’s when the phone started ringing, startling him further. The giant snapped out of his stupor at the sight of the 702 area code. Cottonbottom. He nearly laughed at the whimsy, but found himself choked up instead.

“I need to take this,” Von Kelsig croaked, “..then we need to get to work.”

A few days later..

Built into the back of the barn, the recording studio was set up to look exactly like the backstage interview set at every PRIME show. Stage rigging on either side, big screen TV showing the PRIME logo, curtains and carpets. Impeccable. In front of the camera Hessian looked every bit of the monster that he felt. He filled the screen, dressed in his gear with not a stitch out of place. His beard as big and wild as his cold, blue eyes. Sharp teeth hidden behind a fixed snarl…

…and a fresh bandage wrapped around a very recent surgery scar.

The weight of the universe on his shoulders.

Cyril was decked out in a three-piece suit, hair slicked back, no mask. Matt Mills himself could not squeeze out a finer turd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Minion the Imp here. I am joined by ‘The Murder Show’ Hessian, who this week will face ‘The Russian Bear’ Ivan Stanislav in the main event of ReVival Fifty-One. Hessian, your thoughts?”

A moment of silence.

“We both know what this match means, Ivan,” Hessian uttered eventually, with menacing calm. “This is history unfolding in real-time. A match so monumental that it’s taken the world twenty years to prepare itself for the fallout. Our agendas are inconsequential. This is the greatest honor, the ultimate fight. It transcends everything. We are the peak of combat evolution; the strongest giants, the fiercest warriors. Monsters that can’t be killed…and on Friday, we find out who blinks first.”

Von Kelsig raised his left arm and pointed straight at the camera, all his pain condensed into the slightest twitch in his eye.

“Welcome to the second great awakening, Ivan Stanislav. ”

Fade.

To.

Murder.