Ad Finem Fidelis

There are few things worse in life than death. For our heroes, drawing to Fred Dick and STRONK was one of them. Next on the list? Fighting the Anglo Luchador and whatever fanboys’ wet dream his partner was. But the battle was rough and had taken its toll on Fuck Your Tag Team. And so our favorite tag team was taking some much needed R and R.

The sun coming in from the windows outside just barely peeked in the bottom of the crack of the door.

Rob took a deep breath in through his nose, little bits and pieces of coke likely breaking free as he did. Anna had been teaching him a lot about being present. Funny thing about time travelers, they really appreciate this moment. What were five things his senses could notice to bring him back to the now?

He heard the trickling rain playing softly in the background.

He felt the masseuse walking across his back.

He smelled the eucalyptus ever so faintly in the air.

He tasted a whiskey drenched ashtray in his mouth.

And he saw… that fucking light.

“God damnit.” Rob cried out and pushed himself up, sending the tiny masseuse flailing as she tried to hold onto the railing above. “This is supposed to be a fucking immersive experience and this Mickey Mouse bullshit is ruining it.”

Anna wearily opened up an eye and glanced over at Rob. “What? Is Walt here?”

Apparently, the Legend did not get the memo that his timey-wimey partner had the hookup to the man himself. Or at least, she did until the last few weeks. The cell service from Disney's bunker always was a bit wonky, but not even the Imagineers were picking up the phone. She looked around a bit and, in finding no thawed out chain smokers except Rob, placed her head back on the cushion. On top of prime shit, there was still a wrestling school for her to help run. Getting slammed by rookies all day can wreak havoc on anybody's back which is the reason why Anna suggested this in the first place. She needed the pampering and was quite certain the cranky bastard beside her needed something else besides self-medication and self-destruction.

“Hey, go lower, will you please? That's where we need it.”

The masseuse began to walk backwards as the Muse looked at her tag partner with the cucumber face mask still stuck to her face. “It's the light, ain't it?”

Was it the light? Or the cancer? Or the fucking Russian pinko commies? Maybe it was all of it.

But whatever the driver was, Rob couldn’t find his zen.

He stood from the bed, clad in little more than a hand towel, and stretched his back. He couldn’t help but admire the thick dorsels on the woman now dangling from the pole above the massage bed. It wasn’t her fault. Well, it more than likely wasn’t. Rob had always been a cranky bastard, but lately, it was a constant seething rage. The drywall was crumbling just below the wallpaper and the glue was struggling to keep it all together.

This made him think of Charlotte. She had always been that glue for him.

“What the fuck do we know about the losers we’re facing this week?”

Anna sighed as she nonverbally instructed those petite feet to cease. Fuck it. We'll downward dog the rest of the kinks out. Wrapped in a full blow beach towel, the lethal lottery began in her head. Her face shifted expressions before eventually forming into an analytical state. Deep breath. This is going to take a minute.

“The Spanglo Luchador. AKA Zapp Scatino. FKA Mortimer Kjedelig, C. Mortgomery Burns, and a thousand other names we can't bother to remember. Government name: Rowan Scatino. Born November 20, 1979. Nephew of some underboss of a crime family. Divorced. One dead kid. Two prison stints. One failed bit in the witness protection program. He's a certified con man and a bonafide scumbag. Nobody likes him. Everybody hates him. He's probably ate some worms.”

Okay. So far, so good. Now for the crazier bit.

“The Anglo Luchador. FKA Jerichoholic Anonymous.”

Rob gave a look. All Anna could say in response is…

“Yes. Anyway. Government name: Tommaso Battaglia. Born December 11, 1981. His father was a wrestler, his mother fucking hates wrestling, his wife and kids are pretty cool, and the rest of his immediate family kinda suck. Good dude with a strong inferiority complex and the biggest chip on his shoulder to ever exist. Prides himself on being–”

Air quotes.

“--’The Wrestler’ and previously had a connection to Aztec gods and Taco Bell. Don't ask. Former Skittles alien. Don't ask two: electric boogaloo. The story in a nutshell: Morty signed them up for tag team nonsense in an attempt to convince Tom that they're brothers for…some reason. Tom isn't falling for it but is still going through with it anyway because that's what he does. He takes his hero shit seriously and honors his commitments no matter how stupid said commitments are. They have nothing in common except being Italian and having a fetish for masks.”

She ended this info dump with a noncommittal shrug.

“And how was the drive, Mrs. Kennedy?” Rob replied with a smirk.

There wasn’t a whole lot in his past that Rob could point to that he was proud of. He had lied and cheated and stolen. He’d hurt people, some really bad. As the final few grains of sand passed through the event horizon and he inched closer to the setting sun, he’d likely propagate more of this behavior. But he never whored himself out for the fans.

Through good times and bad, he had been Rob fucking Williams.

To thine own self be true.

He may have gotten mixed up with some weird shit, but “The Legend” monicker had stuck from the first time he’d gotten it. Rob liked snakeskin cowboy boots and black jeans.

While these two fucks were on some endless discovery of self to try and find some self-worth in the approval of fans or promoters, Rob knew what he had and played the fuck out of his hand.

“Reminds me of the ol’ boy got the three-string banjo. Sat on his porch just a fucking wailing at those three strings. Of course, it sounded like horse shit. One day his wife came home and said” I seen a boy at the grocery store had one of them with five strings”.” Rob began. His hands went to his hips to pantomime the imaginary woman’s condescending tone towards this illiterate hillbilly playing with his broken banjo.

Pregnant pause.

“”Well, shit,” that ol’ boy said. “He must be looking for something, cause I already got what I need.” And that fucker just kept on plucking those three-strings, proud as a boy on prom night.”

What the fuck did any of that mean?

Anna thought for a moment before speaking again. “It's better to work with what you got than pine over shit you don't need. Even if you are doing a horrible job with it.”

Is that what he meant? Fuck knows. The thing about the types of folksy ass fables that Rob likes to spew is they can mean just about anything. But that's what she was hearing. Maybe she heard it because she needed to and given her circumstances within PRIME, it fit a little too well. Anna Daniels had always given herself names to constantly self-describe because other people's attempts were at best demeaning. Even the one the vessel was born with was an insult. Annaperenna, fifth of Omnicrex, copyright of Xianthellipse. It wasn't until she got married that one was finally given to her.

You're my muse, Annie.

She hadn't felt like the Muse for a while. But that was changing.

Her hand reached for the edge of the face mask and quickly ripped it off. “Fucking hell!” It hurt. Two buck dollar store facials always hurt. The old wax face was sloughed away and in its place was raw and tender. At least for now. The pain would fade within minutes and the softness would remain.

“Maybe we should focus on what we have and roll with it the whole way. What do we have that they don't?”

…and then her eyes traveled downward to where Rob's towel was. In his hand, on his hip.

“Your cock's out, by the way.”

Rob shrugged carelessly.

“It happens.”

What did they have that those their opponents didn’t? Talent. Originality. Brain cancer.

Fuck. His time with Anna sometimes made him forget there was a rotten parasite eating through his fucking brain. Pretending to make himself decent, Rob knelt down and pulled the quarter pint of warm vodka from his belongings. He peered over the massage table at Anna, speaking extra loud to cover the sound as he unscrewed the plastic cap from the plastic bottle. He preferred plastic: it was quieter and rarely broke.

“The aggression of femininity.”

Rob ducked his head and took a long pull. The warm vodka tasted like aged battery acid. It was an acquired taste.

“You know there’s this old joke. God’s talking to Adam and says, “Hey Adam, I got the perfect partner for you. She will always be there for you, be obedient, and even tempered. All I need is one arm and a leg.” Well, ol’ Adam thought about it for a minute and said, “What can I get for a couple of ribs?”

His laugh was amplified to covertly put the bottle away.

“Despite aggression commonly being associated with men, I think it’s women who are scary. Thousands of years of repression you can tap into. Shiiiiiit, they’re already fighting with one arm behind their back. Plus, TAL’s a pussy. I forgot about him, but he tried to play tough guy with a few buddy’s backstage one time. After Ivan and I handed him his ass.”

“Yeah. He does that.”

Anna peered over her shoulder while slipping her shirt back on. She knew he was doing something over there, but it wasn't worth the argument. A lot of the pressure and stress she had held for about 18 months and some change had fallen away and crazy as it would sound to her adopted sister, Rob Williams had some part to do with it. Whether it be their crazy ass conversations or that she's slowly watching him die in real time, there was a certain understanding. They shared a link from the first moment they met.

“And as flattering as you're being, you're overvaluing us a bit. Yes, we're pissed off and yes, we will rip their heads from their bodies if they cross us wrong. But we apparently have the nasty habit of making enemies, even if we don't see them that way. TAL wants to give us a stern talking to, for whatever dumb reason. Lest we forget he was an Intense champ for a minute, so he can fire up if he honestly wanted to.”

He didn't want to though. One had to be at a certain mindset to be that dangerous and Tom wasn't there at this stage of the game.

“While Spangles hates us because we refuse to change his past for him so he can be less of a fuck up. Never mind that he had a chance to change with Kohime.”

Surprisingly, as short of a memory as this universe had, Mortimer slapping the taste out of Mori's mouth for the crime of actually seeing some good in the man was one moment that stuck. It was still the undercurrent of his reputation beyond anything else. It probably always would be. She shook her head.

“Man’s an idiot. Bottom line is we’re the bigger target between the two of us. Both of them will be aiming for our head. We can use that to our advantage. We distract and you being the crafty, callous little prick you are can pick the flesh from their bones.”

His upper lip snarled, like a dog giving a warning. It was something primal, instinctual. He let it roll into a smirk. She was right, he was a callous prick, but like the man with the banjo, you use what you’ve got.

“Little?”

The smile rolled into a smirk as he wrapped himself in the robe. You could tell how nice a place was by the robe. He had stayed at a lot of supposedly high end joints that had sandpaper bathrobes. The robe at that spa, though, that one was like being wrapped in a cloud. He took a deep inhale through his utterly abused nostrils, soaking in the eucalyptus. In that moment it all got real and it was just a bit too heavy. Suddenly he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“I’m running out of time, you know..”

He lit a cigarette, knowing and not caring about the policy. Policies could get fucked. It’s not like they could kill him.

“You know, I know I said that we’d been paired by the brass, but the honest truth is I asked for it. I was gonna tell Troy about the tumor, but I just couldn’t find the.. gumption. So I said I wanted to tag with you. I know we didn’t have much success against Daytona and Winters, but leading up to that PPV, the momentum and shit we had. Well, it was the best I’ve felt since John left.”

Smoke billowed from the growing layer of ash at the end of the cigarette as Rob inhaled hard. He looked anywhere in the room but the eyes of his tag partner.

“I, uh, I ain’t really got anybody left. You know, The Father ain’t been around much lately.”

His mind went to the dark corners of all of his fears and insecurities.

Rob thought about the annals of ghosts in the hallways of his mind. Wrestling had a low life expectancy anyway, and it had been a fucking bullet train with no stops from the shit he and most of his friends had done outside of the ring. He could’ve been like Jimmy Steele, wrapped his old Chevy C10 around an oak tree, or gotten a hot shot of fentanyl like Desperado. Hell, he could’ve ridden off in the sunset like Reggie Rivid.

But here he was, still boozing and smoking and fighting. This wasn’t glory. There wasn’t anything respectable about wasting away in front of the fans. Bitter and pissed, waking up hurting every morning, wondering how the fuck he’s gotten like this.

“What are people gonna say about me when it’s done?”

He wondered how long he could keep up. Would he fail Anna? Die in the fucking ring? It would serve them all right. The fucking fans always wanting more and the brass getting rich on their goddamn backs.

There was no way his body could outrun the cancer. It was inevitable. So what was his legacy to be?

This had to mean something. They had to break the mold and win the championships. Change the course of PRIME. Snatch gold from the jaws of another limpdick pandering to the masses to be loved.

“We have to win, Anna.”

There was a silence on the other end as the gravity of the situation weighed on both partners. Anna slowly put on her robe as the Multitudes went into a frenzy. People on the roster got angry over her saying that PRIME is temporary, but she wasn't saying it just to be provocative nor because she was a nihilist. It was the truth. How many places had she been in that are gone with the wind? How many people had she outlasted? How many heroes have been forgotten? She couldn't even imagine the number. She didn't even want to know.

The last person besides herself that would remember the oldest names recently stuffed his tail between his legs and ran back to his shithole in Canada. Only a handful knew the second oldest names. Friends, lovers, enemies…hell, her own brother. All of them were gone. Their names were stuffed in the cobwebs and dust of history, forgotten by all except one. The worst part was that eventually, the few she loved at this point in time would follow them sooner than she'd want them to.

Anna Daniels swallowed hard. She refused to cry in this universe. Fuck this universe. Instead, she marched right up to Rob Williams, took his head in her hands, and forced him to look her in the eyes. His tears fell hot on their hands as she spoke.

“Fuck what they say about you. They are going to think whatever they want to regardless of what you do or say or feel. You're on borrowed time. You know it, we know it. You have a chance, while you still have some brains left, to do whatever the hell you want free of consequences. What can they do to you that you haven't already done to yourself? What can they do that you aren't doing to yourself now?”

A sigh. She shook her head.

“If all you want to do for the rest of your life is do drugs, drink, and kick ass…we’re with you, Rob. If you want to do more than that? We're still with you. But that's your call. You're the only one who can make it.”

With that, she let go of him.

“As for those belts? We'll either take those bastards or we'll leave some bodies on the floor in the attempt. Either way, it's going to be fun.”

She laughed a little, settling into a smirk with her attempt at lightening the mood.

It was no small gesture to Rob and he believed it wasn’t easy peasy, lemon squeezy for Anna. Wrestling was brutal. Especially if you weren’t some carbon copy dimwit trying to “finish the story”, a bald and soulless automaton, or some eye-tie with a mask trying to play whatever character sells fucking newspapers. For those who were not afraid to color outside of the lines, like Anna and Rob, the path was lonely. But here, in the swampy muck that is backstage politics and online presence, they had found one another and that day made a pact to walk together until the stage lights were turned off.

Rob wiped his eyes on the shoulder. Fuck, even the outside of the robe was perfect.

“Let’s go get a colonic.”

Anna scoffed as she opened the door.

“You definitely need it.”