Waiting

They say that anger can fuel you, drive you further than perhaps you would living a beautiful neutral life. People often seek to be outraged because they feel their lovely human engine revving up, ready to be launched with an attack in any direction that so much as sniffs at the fleshpod in the wrong direction.

The problem though, the problem that everyone knows be can’t quite admit, just like any other fuel, you can become depleted. The reserves tapped out, no hate reservoir to put in the new fury, the pumps all empty.

So, what do you do when you’re running on empty? When in your brain you see that little arrow dipping further and further below the “E”. Do you keep trying, do you keep pushing, hoping that you’ve got enough bile left in you to reach your final goal… or do you pull in, do you stop, do you look for that little gas station out in the wilderness that has that exact combustible that your internal self really just jives with?

Falling down at the crossroads of life is not a common occurrence in our lifetimes. We find ourselves there a handful of times, wondering which path to take, which one will give us the most meaning to our lives, the one that will give us the most fuel to take our desires forward.

The path of anger often leaves us to nothing but emptiness.

That’s where Cecilworth Farthington sat as he heard the announcement that Cancer Jiles had won their battle at Tropical Turmoil. A battle that a foolhardy Cecilworth had rushed towards, like a bull to a rag. There was no calculation, there was no caution, there were only visceral vile feelings towards a half human-half rat hybrid with a shockingly large supply of T-Shades.

Then he got tricked. He fell to a superior tactician, he fell to what was a simple ruse. One he should have been more capable of handling.

As the sound of the bell battled around in his head, each clunk reminding himself that he failed against Caner Jiggles himself, he started feeling his very essence escape from his body. A man who once declared himself The Finish Line of Professional Wrestling, a man who once seemed impossible to defeat, a monster amongst men, all the more surprising given his slender figure, in that moment, as Cancer Jiles gesticulated in victory, Phil Atken’s visage looking back at him through the carefully airbrushed tights, every one of those words of power faded away. The whole essence of Farthington went kaput.

There were no reserves, no fight, no light to renew his energy, no power to scream to the Gods.

Cecilworth Farthington was finally spent.

—

“I let him down, mummy.”

It’s been a while since we’ve had a beautiful cinematic overview of the grounds of Farthington Manor, so we have that now, so please enjoy. For reference, the hedge maze is growing in quite nicely and clearly hasn’t been burnt down in several months after a panic attack by the former PRIME Five Star Champion, so that’ll be keeping the Minotaur who dwells within quite happy, one would assume.

The Farthington Family mausoleum wasn’t something that Cecilworth often welcomed the cameras towards. As much as the entire universe had, over the years, learned about his father’s passing, particularly coming more to light with that one dude who recently got super into communism and wants to keep telling you about it… that guy kept saying he lived within his brain.

Which is patently absurd. You can’t get a ghost in your brain, there’s just no space.

Still, Farthington kept the rest of his family quite close to his chest. Lord Farthington was a name uttered and muttered in many wrestling promotions. Lady Farthington? Not so much. Cecilworth wasn’t ever very forthcoming on the matters of mother. So, to get a glimpse of Cecilworth standing in front of her tomb was a rare sight indeed.

On this day, Cecilworth was freshening up the flowers, a mixture of purples and reds. Cecilworth had no idea what breed or type, he was just there for the colour vibe.

“I’ve been letting a lot of people down recently. I’ve been adrift, I’ve been a fool, I’ve been driven by ego, hell, I’ve been driven by lust.”

Cecilworth smiles towards the tomb, listening as if it was speaking back to him as he mindlessly removed the blackened dead flowers.

“I know, you wanted me to meet a nice girl, but you also know I’m a fool. I fell in love with a concept instead. I fell in love with an idea. It felt safer, you know, something that I could sense would want to love me back. Humans are just so… complicated…”

Cecilworth chuckles at the witty remark he’s sure that he’s heard in his head, even when he is only talking to an impressive amount of green marble and a few candles. As he puts away the rotten flowers, he begins to dress the tomb with the new colour mix. Vibrant and bright, just like how Cecilworth saw Lady Farthington in his eyes.

“You’re right, love hurts, but I think I was feeling lust, not love. I dived in with both feet, only to become shattered. Real love doesn’t end with a Cancer Jiles triumphant. Real love should never bring joy to Vickie Hall. Wrestling was a fling, mum, it didn’t love me like I loved it. I convinced myself I can bend it to my will, convinced that I was a moral good, that all events and all justice would bend towards my view of the world. Even saying it out loud right now, I can see how absurd I’ve been. Pushing my allies away, I’ve set myself up for the miserable world I find myself in now.”

Cecilworth takes a few steps back to admire his handiwork. Maybe wrestling was not his calling anymore, maybe it was floral design, it was a passing thought as he took a moment to look at Lady Farthington’s plaque, nodding patiently as if it had just grown a pair of mouths.

“Oh you. Yeah, we do need to find the bright things. We need our glad days, I think I have one of those coming up in a week or so. There’s this little fella at work who needs a bit of help and I guess the boss thinks I can lend a hand in sorting it all out. I should be angry with him, he caused a bit of a ruckus in my department a few weeks ago. Look, I’m trying to explain it in a way you would understand. He helped a work rival get a prime, golden contract, and stole it right from under my nose.”

Cecilworth slaps the plaque again and smiles, as he lays down the few flowers that he still has left.

“Only have myself to blame. If I wasn’t chasing the ring skirt, I’d have had my own allies in my corner. Twice now I know I’ve been walking into a handicap situation and I just kinda let it happen. If I’d been better to the Glue Boys, if I’d been better to my War Games team, we could have had a movement. Instead I went back to my own petty concerns.”

Cecilworth hops back up, buffing the plaque one final time.

“Not to worry, I know what you’d tell me. We learn, we grow, we get better. I wanted to be the old me so bad, those records, the acclaim, the friends… all of it disappears in the end. I can't chase the ghosts of the past. It’s time to live in the here and now, not worry about what was and what ifs. You always know what to say.”

A few small tears start to drip from Cecilworth’s eye holes as he takes one last look at the floral arrangement, he compliments his own skills by muttering “nailed it” under his breath as he takes his leave. Just as Cecilworth departs the Farthington Family Mausoleum, the camera catches a shadowy figure grabbing one of the flowers that Cecilworth had just laid down, rushing off into the shadows of the tomb with their prize.

—

Cecilworth had elected to cool his head instead of making the travels towards Albertsons Stadium in Boise, Idaho. As much as Cecilworth may have enjoyed his own private Idaho, he knew the mingling with best and brightest of PRIME wasn’t going to do him any favours in his current mental funk. Best to let the chaos happen without his hand in it, he had thought to himself. He had thought about showing his face at least for the Jetski Funeral, after all, Cecilworth was a renowned public speaker and has given some of the finest eulogies that PRIME wrestling has ever seen, but on this occasion, he had a long standing feud with the Jetski and had concluded that the old Ski-er-oo wouldn’t have wanted him there due to bad blood reasons.

Instead, Cecilworth had arranged to meet up with his close confidant Dirk Dickwood at a Chicago restaurant. Even since he’d sampled hot cheesy tomato pie soup in a crust bowl to celebrate Hayes Hanlon’s defection to the world of Glue, he had wanted to give it a second shot, just to fully conclude if such a product truly was the work of Satan himself or not, like a lot of things that come from Chicago.

It’d be years since Cecilworth had worked permanently in the city, but he still had his small apartment that he’d first rented on his very first tour of the US. It was something nostalgic at this point, and just below his home away from home, there was some form of a restaurant delivering the red bready mess that he desired.

So as Dirk greeted him, the two men entered the building, to be stopped in their tracks by a perfectly perky server, who just had a simple question for the two men - “Do you have a reservation?”, when both Brits hummed and hawed for a few moments, they had to unfortunately claim that they did not arrange for such things. “It might be a bit of a wait then” came the response, just as perfectly perky as the original question. They nodded and shuffled off to some vacant seats near the door.

“So, why’dya want to meet me alone? Worried Phil’s not exactly happy with what went down at Turmoil?”

The former Five Star champion had to chuckle to himself for a moment, before concluding “If I was worried about Phil not being happy, I’d probably be in a padded cell by now. No, I’ve let him down and I’ll have to face up to that at some point, but that’s not why I wanted you here…”

Cecilworth's thoughts trail off for a few seconds, his eye has caught one of the tomato soups heading towards a table and it seems to be burbling with a furious heat, bouncing about like it had just come straight out of a jello-mold. For a few seconds, Cecilworth sees a face in it, as if the viscous red substance was flowing out of a man’s temple… a gap where an eye should be. As Cecilworth tries to focus more on the bizarre yeast mess, Dirk pats his shoulder and brings him back into the tangible world.

“Okay, so if that’s not why I’m here… why am I here?”

Cecilworth sort of hears Dirk and begins to formulate a response, hearing the perky voice in the background once more assure then “it’ll just be a bit longer, we’re surprisingly busy today.”

“Ah, yeah, so… you know the weird basement that my father told me never to go into?”

Dirk nods, already knowing where this is going, enquiring “you went into it?”

“No, well… yes.” comes the response from Farthington, realising quickly that he has no earthly reason to lie to Dirk about this. “I went down there and there were these weird machines, making the oddest gurgling noises, it seemed like there were… how do I say this… semi-formed people. The whole room stank of jizz! Then Hank was there and he was wearing a lab coat and clipboard and he spoke to me…”

The kind server who continues to check whether a table is free for the twosome is an unfortunate victim to hearing most of the story in her earholes while passing. She stops in her tracks for a moment, turns around as if she’s about to ask a question, sighs, turns back around and yells “A FEW MORE MINUTES” as she enters the Hall of Eatery once more. An exasperated Dirk puts a hand upon Cecilworth’s shoulder.

“So, let me get this straight. There was a room that stunk of fluid and there were body parts growing, while Dr. Hank kept an eye on the whole matter, who after being a mute in our company for twelve years, suddenly decided to give the game up in his secret basement of body parts? Is that what you are telling me?”

The server, who has tried to be respectful up to this point, has to stifle her laughter, lest she be considered a disrespectful young lady. Dirk looks at his friend in the eye with a look of genuine concern.

“Cecilworth, buddy, you can’t believe that actually happened, right? I mean, you just heard yourself say it out loud, did it not sound odd then? I know we work in a bizarre industry, but we still operate under the laws of Earth, not some Sci-Fi fantasy. You’ve put yourself under a lot of pressure recently, you’ve been fighting for your continued relevance in an ever changing industry, trying to keep Glue to stick together, trying to avenge Phil against Jiles… this sounds like a classic case of a stress dream to me.”

Cecilworth clutches at Dirk’s arm, looking him straight in the eye, trying to be as emphatic as he can. “Dirk, I swear I saw it all.”

A reassuring pat on the back follows from Dirk. “Don’t get me wrong Cecilworth, stress dreams can feel more real than our very lives. For a while I kept waking up imagining spiders were hovering above me. Felt so real, I was always convinced that maybe the last time was a dream, but the next batch of spiders would be the real ones. Went on for months when I tried to get my agency off the ground in the US. Always felt real. This sounds exactly like that.”

Cecilworth tries to use pleading eyes, sputtering out that he really did see Hank talk, Dirk takes a longer view of the matter. “I don’t blame you bud, it feels real. In the past year, you’ve seen your best friend resurrected and he says a wild bunch of shit, like your father living in his skull… you’ve come close to climbing the mountain of wrestling multiple times, you’ve slipped, you’ve fallen, you’ve gone backward to the base camp. The pressure must be immense, the stress immeasurable. This dream is just your body responding to everything that’s happened. It’s normal. Perfectly cromulent, as the kids say”

Cecilworth nods as Dirk speaks, trying to absorb his words, because he knows that they are coherent, that they make sense, that they are worthy of listening to and yet, to Cecilworth, there’s still a major part of him that wants to dismiss the even handed response. Everything that day felt real, from the golden door, to the smell, to Hank. Stress dreams come and go, but nothing had felt that real to Cecilworth before.

The grasp of Dirk grows tighter, this time he ensures that he’s got direct eye contact with his ever aging mentee. “Trust me Ceece, I’ve been down this road before, you convince yourself your dreams are reality… next think you know you’re walking Sauchiehall Street in Glasgow, brandishing a plastic plastic Broadsword in an adult diaper, painting your face blue using a urinal cake and declaring yourself the reincarnation of William Wallace.” Dirk clears his throat. “You know, to give an example of the madness you could be driven to. Hypothetically of course.”

Cecilworth gives a reassuring nod. “Of course.” but his thoughts trail off once more as he see a second plate of hot tomato paste with cheese come out from the kitchen, he looks close and swears to see a small arm floating up out of the red volcano bread. As he tries to focus on what he’s looking at, he is once again interrupted by the server. “Only a few more minutes.”

Cecilworth looks to Dirk. “I think we live here now.”

—

Hi Tony. I think we’ve had a few Jabber (™) exchanges over the past few years but I can’t say that we’ve ever had that formal moment of a friendly exchange of banter live on camera for the viewing audiences. I’m not even sure if we’ve exchanged a hold in the ring, despite our tenures in this fine company. People said you were in War Games, but given your stature, trying to pick you out of that melee was like being an unwilling participant in the world’s most challenging game of Where’s Wally (YES I KNOW IT’S CALLED WALDO IN THE US, BUT THIS WAY I CAN ALSO IMPLY TONY IS A WALLY, WHICH IS A SILLY LITTLE INSULT WORD WE USE IN THE BRITISH ISLES, OKAY? OKAY!)

What emotion do you want me to feel towards you, Sir Two Books? Is it rage? Do you want me getting all “Farthington Madness” on you and promising to rip you apart, limb by limb by limb until there is nothing left of you apart from a Glasgow Smile on a stained red mat? It’s cute, what you do, adorable really. Pushing buttons like you’re a 1960s phone operator and the BIG GAME has just gone to half time. You’re fucking good at it too. The amount of people who have the red mist descend upon them when they see your little grin, well… you know all about this, you just experienced it, again, on our most recent airing of ReVival after all, did you not?

But this time you fought real hard!

I’d almost say you get a sick pleasure out of receiving a punishment for your bitter, harsh words. Maybe it’s a shit talking kink though, and not a weird sub thing. I really do not have the time to sexually psychoanalyse a man who is refused entrance to several rollercoasters any time he shows up at a theme park.

Sorry Tones, I’m sure next time you’ll be tall enough for Big Thunder Mountain. 

I think you want me angered, I think you want me seeing rage, I think you want me to look past you. In fact, I don’t think, I know. This is how you win Tony, this is how you get into your opponents heads, and it pains me to say this but…

It worked, didn’t it?

At Tropical Turmoil, you came out of the crowd, and you might as well have been wearing a t-shirt proclaiming “I AM A TRAP”, and yet even though I knew that, even though I knew that a game was afoot, I still stumbled simply into the whole affair. Maybe you were expecting Joe there, maybe you weren’t, but he was useful to you and Jiles nonetheless.

A successful bit of Banditry by one of Jiles’ minions.

I hope you don’t mind me counting you as part of his numbers. I know you’ve got this whole Sophie’s Choice melodrama going on right now as the Bandits implode like an egg left too long in the microwave. Are you going to choose the mean daddy who gyrates and kicks the infirm when they’re down, or are you going to go with mummy, who might actually give you a new lease on life.

It’s sad that we’re talking about that though, isn’t it Tony? That you aren’t your own man anymore, merely a pawn in a war for control of what a hen shits out.

You broke me, not Cancer Jiles, not the parade of Bandits to be named in the 5th round, it was your hands, it was your work. When the ACE Network streams “The Fall of Farthington”, Tony Gamble will be the first face you see. That’s something to be proud of, something that maybe should remind you of who you are. You’re not a solider in the war of others, you’re supposed to be the General. You had a whole society to appreciate you once. Now, you sit upon the carton, waiting to be picked by the hand that leads.

It’s fitting that we fight in San Francisco this week, a city where so many find their true selves and what they are capable of.

I’m excited to gas up and find out.

How about you?