Punchline

A strand, the lateral head, pulled tight to the labrum and the capsule of the shoulder joint. The force placed upon it is tremendous, the culprit seeking not to wound, but to kill. Kill as he believes the father intended for him. A guttural wince bellowing from deep inside dear dad shines clear the way. So big, so powerful, but with his arm in this grasp, the child is adjudicator. Yank and pull and jerk, no matter the sting scalding through the young man’s knuckles, this ripping and tearing will lead to the final blow for not just him, but for his mother as well. Microseconds later, the snap is loud enough for both of them to hear.

Limp, the strand, pressed into the Diamond’s cheek, beading outward an abrasion swell akin to a branding kiss. Unclenched muscles and lacking spatial awareness made the impact hurt more than he’d ever care to admit. That, he could shake off, recover from. Maintain a level of dignity.

Within ultraviolence, the final bits within his arm fray, striated muscles unable to hold despite the command the diamond demanded. Such was the weight of a mountain he tried to lift. And as he collapsed, helpless, unlike he’d ever done before in the ring, his tendon drooped like a gob of fat to his ulna. Turkey snood, Astrid likened it to. Such a silly visual for sensations so awful.

The ultimate mocking gesture. Rustic cuts make for greater pores in the semolina. Such care taken, who would have the heart to tell the chef that the sauce split. Bile and parmesan made a more than effective paste.

And so they boo.

And so they boo.

The anthem of the invader wails into the autumn night, and those Cold War relics, they take what they came for, leaving him to wallow in misery. He wanted to fight on. Needed to fight on. He couldn’t. Tragedy, sinking deeper within, mixing in with the rest of the disgust pooling in his stomach.

Like vultures, for the second straight pay-per-view, they pluck and carry away what they came for, these bandits. Such a little man, this carrion, yet the measure of the man within made his outward gigantic. For them, he’d be perfect. This was not the only sequel. Lying there, the diamond shivered as he tried to push himself from the canvas. Was the sauce a touch too salty? A tinny ring in the ears, and despite it, he could hear the puckering of those lips.

He shouldn’t have been here. There’s a price to pay for such decisions. The lines between tragedy and comedy aren’t that far apart.

So tip your waitresses. We’ll be here all week.

Make sure to enjoy the alfredo.

I’m not laughing, but all of you are, even if you say you’re not.

I made choices and they’ve been biting me ever since. Fuck this year. I hate this year. I hate everything about it. But mine didn’t start in January; September 21st began my Year of Shit. Slapping our thighs? Having a grand ole time? I’m still stuck on the first handful of days. It’s not funny. None of it is funny. But it’s building, layers upon layers, up the walls of this septic tank. And it’s time to huff and puff.

Time to blow it all down.

Please, do your best to stifle your chuckles.

Brandon found it comical how boring the trek from Minneapolis/St. Paul to Eau Claire always proved to be, but as afternoon turned to evening, such feelings weren’t top of mind. Ivan Stanislav was the Universal Champion, surmounting him inside the confines of the UltraViolence Cage. Forever, the Russian Bear would hold bragging rights from that night. As wounding as the notion was, as the miles ticked ever closer to home, it was far from the forefront. At least, in wrestling, he could get back in the ring and fight.

What awaited him at home wasn’t as easy.

Amy led the whole way down Interstate 94 East, far ahead enough but always able to keep a bead on him in her rearview. It was as though she could sense his desire to escape. To turn around. Head on back to the airport, book a flight to the cabin out in Oregon.

In front of millions, he fought and spilled his soul. Amongst the people he loved the most, now, all he wanted was to hide away.

It wasn’t until they turned off on Wisconsin 312 that she pulled definitively ahead. The entire time, he swam with his thoughts. How to parse through everything. He’d left everything that had happened between him and Cody lie. Now, it was time to pay up. Just a little more time, he begged. Just a little bit more.

Five miles under the speed limit while driving through Eau Claire. His hope was forlorn, as when he turned the corner, he saw Amy wasn’t standing alone in the driveway of his home; Melissa was there, arms folded across her chest. Standing there, waiting for him.

I made a choice to try, with a torn tricep, to defend the Almasy crown. To push forward and run the field and remain unbeaten in PRIME tournaments. To get back the Universal Championship. Did I believe I would? Enough toradol can make you think a lot of things. I was staring down killers and sectioned them off in segments. Push forward with survival instinct. I hate Ivan Stanislav, and not only did he take what was mine, but, more than that, he got what would’ve been the ultimate prize; nearly three months of recovery time. I needed it. The tricep lost me the Universal Championship, and shortly thereafter, left me vulnerable against the most technically proficient wrestler I’ve ever faced; Cecilworth Farthington. My strategy was to bait him with the bad arm and ground and pound him to paste. Naive. My future in the Almasy was not as assured as I’d hoped.

One fight was Battle of the Year, the other the ReVival Match of the Year. My rewards for my body failing, gutting my way out, trying to push through. I made Ivan need every minute of those three months of recovery. I busted pieces and parts inside Farthington he wants the world to think conga is the culprit for. Pyrrhic as it may be, at least I can take pride in this.

Taking me on was still tantamount to The Challenger Deep.

I should’ve gone then, like I intended. I even got the surgery and nobody knew it. And then...you had to give me that slap, Gamble. Tony fucking Two Books. Laugh. Smile for me and laugh. We’ve shared this space for far too long for me to ever afford you the germ of a notion that you were why I needed to go. Even with only one arm, I was more than capable of fighting you.

Not because you’re scum, which you are.

Not because someone always needs to shut your mouth, even though they do.

We’re both members of the Hall of Fame. Jewel in the Crowns. Titles upon titles here. Grin, in the pantheon that Anna Daniels doesn’t think exists, put together, and we stacked up quite nicely.

Not so much anymore.

You didn’t start the Year of Shit, but you're when my battles of consequence turned into nothing but a goddamn comedy. Now, here I am, sitting with you and the rest of the old guard waiting to get nostalgia plucked by Lindsay to get eaten by the young and the beloved.

Ain't that a fucking gas?

;

“You don’t answer your phone?” Melissa’s tone toward Brandon was exasperation, not indignation. Amy glanced back and forth between the pair, a yard separating them after he stepped out of his truck. The gear bag stayed; there’d be time to retrieve it later. Campbell offered no blockade, no line of defense.

This was his fight. He needed to provide his ex-wife with answers. Of clarity. “Not in the neighborhood.” A quiet utterance as he passed by the two women he loved, his injured arm limp and pressed against his side. “They don’t need to be in our business.” A strong assumption people didn’t know. Then again, in this day and age, such a story would have found home at his door within moments of release. The second he unlocked the front door, he tried to make his way to the kitchen. Cheddar rose from the floor, trudging as best he could toward his father, struggling to catch his breath. What had happened felt like a lifetime ago. He reached to pet his pug, to talk to him, play with him, as if nothing had changed.

Amy grabbed him by the shoulder, jerking him around as best she could, glaring up toward him. “You need to–”

“I just got home–”

“--don’t avoid–”

“I’m tired and I’m hurt–”

Melissa’s voice attempted to pierce through the dissonance in vain. “Brandon, what happened–”

Amy stood her ground, all as Cheddar started shirking away, whining. “--tell her what you told me–”

He couldn’t face any of them. “--just a few minutes–”

“Cody...Cody told me what happened–”

“No! Now!”

With fury, the Tower answered. “Alright!” His glower smoldered above her, and with nowhere to turn, he sought out his ex-wife’s gaze, her arms remaining folded, her expression drained. “I beat OUR SON, Melissa! I beat up OUR FUCKING SON and I NEARLY choked THE FUCKING LIFE FROM HIM!”

Between the three of them, silence, all except Cheddar, his paws reaching toward his father’s ankles, his whine growing more and more dire. After a few moments, as their pug’s anxiety mounted, Amy collected him from the floor, hugging him in her arms as she strode out of the kitchen, the back door slamming shut behind her.

Mother and father, left alone. The confession already given. They both could have crumbled, their mutual exhaustions mirroring each other.

Different reasons, the other not knowing.

“What did he tell you, Brandon?”

There was nothing to gain from fighting you, Tony. You slapped my arm, and in the end, that’s all the fight you managed to give. I wasted how much of my time, of my effort, just to get into the ring with you in the Superdome. All I could do was either maintain or lose. 

I annihilated you. Thoroughly. 

In the end, I still lost. 

I lost because you were going full Bandit. I lost because I allowed Bobby Dean more time out in front of people than he ever deserves. I lost because a man I came up with in this sport, the man who now holds the Universal Championship, was nothing more than a diversion for Cancer fucking Jiles to swoop on in and kick me in the face. 

That Crumb was dead and buried. Rearview. No matter what he’s said, no matter how much horseshit (or horsehead or whatever horse part you pick, I don’t give a shit) he foists off as news, we were done. Finished business. Never ever getting back together. My ‘friend’...I was talking to Coral about his newborn daughter. You get that, Tony? I’d rendered you so insignificant that I could shoot the breeze in front of a stadium full of people on the biggest show of the year. Jesus Christ...I’m even talking like him! Using his GODDAMN phrases! You slapped my arm and I made you puke, and Jiles slid across that very puddle and seasoned the sole of his boot with it before he smashed it into my face.

An electric slide superkick into what’s become an undefeated year.

Ha.

Hahaha.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Not only that, the same man I was talking with after destroying you...on the cusp of the biggest moment in his entire wrestling career, months later, we meet in Lisbon, me staggering from the ring, sweat drenched, straps down. The Year of Shit isn’t rooted underneath my fingernails at this point, it’s thoroughly splattered on my face so much it’s like layers of clown make up as white as split goddamn alfredo sauce. Looking him in the eye, right after having my head clobbered by a Clay Byrd lariat, there I am, without self awareness, saying to Coral that we both know who he should be facing for the Universal Championship. 

Do you know how degrading it is to have one of your peers, your contemporaries, look you in the eye, at what you’ve become, and humor you? I’m sorry...I forgot who I’m talking about. Of course you do. That’s been you since Devin Shakur needed someone to carry his water. So you are well aware of the sensation, though, maybe not as much at this point? After all, the more it happens, the less it stings your pride .

I hate cowboys.

That’s what I offered.

I hate cowboys.

We’re going to stitch that into the sky. Cowboy Kryptonite. And people will say yeehaw or give me a pair of spurs or a ten gallon to get under my skin. Daytona Diamonds has the song of a fucking ghost play near the end of our match and parleys that into an Intense Championship and we’re about to have a funeral for a fucking jetski...and because of it, he holds victory over me. Paxton Ray and Sage Pontiff, the enlightened duo of newfound ‘good guys’, though they ain’t done shit to earn forgiveness or actually change, I get a chair put in my hands and, after all this time, the referee sees it in my hands and disqualifies me. Not their fault. They aren’t a fucking clown painted wannabe Uce puffing out their chest about being law and order when they lacked the awareness of their surroundings so bad they didn’t see that piece of shit Julien pull back the bottom rope. Then again, a chair in my hand is clearly worth more than a chair slammed into my dome, despite the stakes of the richest prize in all of sports being up for grabs, especially when some professional wrestling barnacle, some disgusting coked out cancer, is the one doing the swinging. 

I hate cowboys and I hate chairs. Let’s make it a two for one special at the laugh factory. All this while those just waltzing in look at me and task me with being the moral defender of all of PRIME. Hey, Clay, check in with your Vae Victis sibling. I wanted state sponsored law and order to fix this shit. They’re the ones saying we ride at dawn. Play the part, cowpoke; I wasn’t about vigilante justice until ‘the good guys’ all had to put our heads on a swivel because Jared Sykes thought he was justified in not saying sorry to someone for spilling chocolate on them because they’re a bitch, I guess.

Everything going on in my life, outside the ring, as serious as it is, it was you, Tony, who ended up sucking me down in the comedy pit. The figure at the end, turning me into a punchline. Because that’s what we’ve become. Snow has lost back to back. Hessian. Tsonda has disappeared. Nova. Matt Ward. Dusk. Johnny. Hoyt. Is it any wonder that Wade gets in the ring part time as a hobbyist? 

Is it any wonder why the person calling herself ‘The Eternal Ace’ feels good writing our checks without having to front the credibility against us of being ‘The Final Boss’?

I’m not just angry. Anger I can deal with.

It's the embarrassment of being in your orbit that is poison to my fucking soul.

He expected hellfire. Why wasn’t he receiving it? “What do you mean?”

“He told me that he hit you first. That he was going to kill you. Why?”

There was no stopping Cody, though. “NO! FUCK YOU! It was about ME! You wanted to kill HER BECAUSE OF ME!”

“That’s not–”

“I HEARD IT–”

“Because I hit you.” His voice broke. “I hit you and he wanted the answers why and I couldn’t give them to him. He thought I was trying to kill you both and...” with his forearm, he brushed through the tears boiling from his eyes. “He hit me and he hurt me and I deserve it. He deserves it. You deserve it. And there’s nothing that’ll ever change that.”

It was Melissa’s turn to look away.

“I’m a piece of shit, and I thought I could balance the scales, Melissa. I...fuck...I want to balance the scales. I want to BALANCE THE SCALES!” His sobs choked from his throat. “I can’t outrun it. He deserves his hatred and I don’t blame them. And I was a fucking idiot for ever coming back.”

Melissa did her best to straighten herself, to stare back into the fire she’d created. It blinded her eyes, scorching them in agony, not in cleansing. The strand is at its maximum and it’s fraying and she started to speak, tried to, but her tongue pinned it to the roof of her mouth. A few blinks. She’d made it this far through surviving day by day; this evening would be no exception. “Me and Travis...we’re going to punish him, Brandon. This is my fault.” The truth escapes without anyone the wiser. “You told me we needed to tell him the truth and we didn’t...because of me. Do I like the fact that you choked him? No.” A deep exhale. “But he was out of line.”

There she was, absolving him of sin. Of wrongdoing.

“I’m...not going to hold it against you if you want to press charges. I leave that to you, Brandon.”

Relief, in some form, should come. It didn’t. The wellspring of emotion, pouring from him, it congealed into something else. Confusion. “No. What? No...”

“Then we’ll fix it. We’ll fix it because we’re a family...and that’s what family’s do...”

You know why you’re in the ring with me, right? I’m state sponsored punishment. You stuck your nose into the nest of Lindsay’s massage buddy, and you cost him against Jiles. Now you get to deal with me. You get the angry, pissed off, point to prove Brandon Youngblood who is going to want to dump you on your head and make you suffer like it will fill the void inside me after all these losses. But I’m just the harbinger. I’m the tenderizer to make sure you’re nice and soft for one of PRIME’s real players to get a bite into. Eight months ago, I went to battle with Cecilworth Farthington. Of all the fights on ReVival, ours was deemed the best. It was important. It mattered.

Now, I’m his appetizer. 

This isn’t a statement that I am getting back on track. That people better watch out, using you as an example. I’m not everyone else here. I’m not morality. I’m not brain nor heart nor soul. I just am. And if that bothers you, I don’t care. I’m not like anyone else here; I willingly gave away over a decade of my prime. I came back to this sport and stacked titles and was the engine behind the rise of the greatest promotion in the history of all combat sports. I’m the one from the old who still sets the pace and tone. Smile for me, Tony. Smile for me in that ring in Boise. There will be nothing left of you to feed a lord. I’m going to make the Year of Shit end at around nine months. 

One whole FLAMBERGE. 

There’ll be laughter, even though people say it isn’t there. Load up on whatever food you like going in. Make it marinara this time, like I give a shit. You’re not emptying your stomach on that canvas this time. 

No, when I grab that leg by the ankle and twist? It’ll be your piss and your shit escaping you. And as everyone looks upon the loudmouth goblin bully, those laughs will become screams. Screams as the tendons in your knee snap like torn pasta. Screams as you realize your choice of meal at Colossus earned me stealing one year of your professional life.

Just like you did to me.

Took a long time to get here.

What do you think of the punchline?

I can’t wait to rub your face in it.