WHAT LIES BENEATH

Arina felt a shadow fall over Ivan Stanislav’s office, but it didn’t start after ReVival 51. It had begun seeping through the old walls of the building weeks ago.

“...Yes I understand, thank you,” the beautiful Russian assistant whispered as she hung up the receiver and pursed her lips.

Bad news.

Two days since 51 and so much had changed. Hessian, the intimidating man whom Ivan respected, betrayed that respect. The Jiles man ambushed her superior and nearly took his head off. Avalon was gallivanting with “Ivan’s” title. That handsome Colton boy sent Mr. Ruslan kicking and screaming to the hospital. Ivan insisted Ruslan stay there.

Was it for his health, or because of something Ivan said to her before?

“...this must be done while Alexei is distracted…”

Curiosity drove her to investigate Stefan Kulikov, the man who had written from prison. The details were disturbing: he and his pregnant wife were arrested without trial, and their child was taken away.

Did Ruslan lie to Ivan? Did Stanislav distrust Alexei? She already guessed that the radio was a method to drown out a listening device. Was Ivan under threat? Was she?

What was she doing again?

Oh yes, the bad news.

As she tentatively stepped into his office, Ivan’s imposing figure loomed ominously behind his steel desk. Dressed in an impeccable olive uniform, he was a formidable mountain against the dimly lit backdrop. His glasses caught the subtle light and obscured his eyes from her view.

The radio droned upon the windowsill.

“What is it?” he growled, his grip on some documents tightening until they crinkled in his huge fingers.

“I just received word, Starshy Praporshchik,” she whispered, her eyes darting nervously as she fidgeted with her hands, “that you are booked for ReVival 52. A triple threat tag team match.”

Raising an eyebrow in disbelief, he grunted. “With whom from my Red Army?”

She hesitated, knowing the answer would not please him. “Since you ordered comrades Kael and Freeman’s entry into their tournament, there are no members available. I… if I knew how to wrestle I would volunteer…”

Ivan’s jaw clenched as he cut her off, “So what does this mean?” He demanded.

“You are booked with Jonathan-Christopher Hall against the teams of Hessian/Jiles and Avalon/Colton.”

“Shit!” The words exploded from Ivan’s lips and echoed off the walls. It was rare for him to curse, but it felt appropriate. He slammed the papers down on his desk, sending a tremor through the room.

Without warning, he snarled at Arina, “Call Lindsay Troy. Find out what kind of game she is playing and tell her I will participate alone!”

Arina Timofeyevna didn’t move.

“What is it now?” Ivan’s voice was laced with defeat as he walked over to the window, storm clouds mirroring his mood as they rolled into Red Square.

“Your standing order…” she trailed, knowing he didn’t need to finish her sentence. But he did, with an exhausted sigh. His reflection in the window showed a man beset with stressors from all sides.

“...to not contact Lindsay Troy under any circumstances,” he finished for her.

They both knew nothing good would come from crossing that line. Even Arina was beginning to doubt that Lindsay Troy and Ivan Stanislav could ever coexist completely.

With a heavy sigh, Ivan turned up the volume on the radio and slowly approached Arina.

“Did you take care of that thing for me?” Ivan’s voice was low and intense as he loomed over the woman. She nodded quickly, her heart pounding with nervousness.

“When can I see him?” His tone was impatient.

“Next week,” she replied quietly, struggling to keep her composure.

“Good.” He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. “Go back to your desk, Arina. Thank you.”

But as she reached the doorknob, Ivan’s comment stopped her in her tracks. “Oh, and Ms. Timofeyevna?”

She turned, her breath caught in her throat. “Yes Sir?”

“Contact Vickie Hall once more. You can thank Lindsay Troy for that.”

The blood drained from Arina’s face as she fought to keep a professional facade. The mere thought of speaking to that garish woman made her stomach churn with dread. Dutifully, Arina forced herself to walk out of the room.

She knew a monster was waiting for her on the other end of that phone line.

And monsters don’t have voicemail.

—

#F87FBB and #C41230

Some say these hex codes don’t mesh well, but inside the Rich Red™ walls of this fine establishment sat the tiniest of girls, with her PRETTY PINK© skirt and glossy perk lips, waiting patiently like an adorable soldier. A trooper, she got there early. Of course she had to upon hearing the tentative voice of Arina Timofayonnaise on the other end of her iPhone. Some would say- well, many would say this dainty flower’s family was at a crossroads. At worst, a breaking point. But as the Rich Red™ of Colonel Harland David Sanders clashed vibed alongside the PRETTY PINK© of Vickie Hall, she was willing to wait for as long as it took.

She was by herself; this should be no surprise. Jonathan-Christopher Hall was sluggish since losing the Universal Championship. Her father, too, went with the winds of The Whoresman. Furthermore, as Vickie could conjure, her Russian Teddy Bear might be having second thoughts about their “partnership”, since Ivan never received the title match he was promised.

So she waited, her cell phone kept in her pocket, her order of popcorn chicken growing colder by the second.

“I have never been to Kentucky before,” Arina said quietly as she looked up at Ivan. The Russian Bear frowned.

“We are not in Kentucky, Arina Rakhila....” Ivan growled.

They looked like something out of Red Dawn, towering Ivan resplendent in his white uniform and medals, while Arina wore a red skirt-suit.

“Welcome to Kentucky Fried Chi—” the worker started to say, but Ivan walked towards the PRETTY PINK© that radiated from the far corner of the dining room. Arina followed him, carrying a basket of Russian trinkets with her.

Let it not be said that Stanislav wasn’t a politician. His scowl melted into a surprisingly warm smile, “Ahhh, beautiful Victoriya, so good to see you once again! Coming to America is often a sad affair, unless I am meeting with you!”

Arina set the basket on the corner of the plastic table. “For Missus Hall.” She said with barely passable English.

And yet, she could’ve said anything. Vickie reached out and with her Mr. Burns-like strength, struggled to lift the basket. Nevertheless, she smiled from ear-to-ear with a gracious “gracias”.

“Ivon! Ivon, dearest!” She added as Stanislav and Arina took their seats. “Oh, how I’ve missed you! And Arina, we have just got to go on that shopping date sometime!”

Arina shifted uncomfortably and smiled mechanically.

“It has been such a difficult month for me,” Vickie began. “Seeing Jonathan-Christopher lose the Universal Championship upon my comeback and now… I don’t know where he’s gone. Please, Ivon, please forgive me. I see you two are booked in a tag match next week. Let me be clear: my Amazing Life Partner will be there to wrestle at your side. I assume he simply needs time. We owe you so much, since, unfortunately, we weren’t able to give you that title shot…”

Her voice trailed, her hands shook. For such a petite lady she was usually unflappable. Stanislav snatched up one of her tiny hands, but Arina saw his eyelid twitch.

“There, there, beautiful Mrs. Hall.” He paused, “Yes, I have not been granted anything that I have been promised. But your husband is at fault, not you. Some men are not able to accept negative outcomes in wrestling, it is just the way it is. I cannot expect Jonathan-Christopher to react as, say, I would at a loss.”

Arina blinked while Ivan squeezed Vickie’s hand, careful not to obliterate any digits. “My heart bleeds for you.” He smiled. “I will find Jonathan-Christopher, my dear, without delay.”

Vickie’s shrunken shoulders never raised, they merely suggested all hope might be lost. But that glisten, the smallest of smallest of glistens in her baby blue eyes…

“You would do that for me?” She questioned while reaching into her pocket and pulling out her oversized iPhone. Opening it with FaceID, she flashed through the apps at a rapid speed until she revealed a map. There, a red dot stood still in a location halfway across the city. “I think Jonathan-Christopher was here but then the signal had-to’ve been lost… because the dot hasn’t moved in three days!”

Stanislav nodded and lifted his brows with a knowing grin. “We have ways of finding people, Victoriya, do not worry.” He began to pull away.

Suddenly, Vickie’s body language shifted, she sat up straight and stiff.

“Legitimately, Ivan,” did she actually pronounce his name without the terrible Russian accent? “I don’t know what’s going on. He won’t talk to me, he won’t even look me in the eyes. He’s let losses destroy him before but this one is… is…”

She couldn’t finish. Instead, she shot up from her chair and brushed the top of her forehead like she was going to faint.

Which she did.

Right into Arina’s lap, who gasped as she caught her.

Vickie laid peacefully with her popcorn chicken as Ivan stomped out of the KFC, and Arina barely kept up. She knew this kind of walk. This was angry-Ivan walk.

“These goddamned Halls…” He snarled as they made their way through the parking lot. He stopped at their van and wheeled around to Arina. “Call Alexei. We find this idiot tonight and then we are getting the HELL out of America!” 

—

The “Eclipse Motel” was a testament to neglect. The exterior walls were stained with years of grime, and the once-bright paint had given way to dull, gray concrete bones. Arina watched Ivan walk, resolute and unshakeable, into the threadbare building.

A man of Ivan’s stature was difficult to deny, and the attendant, a man running out of years on Earth and cares to give, immediately sent Ivan towards the former PRIME Universal Champion’s room.

Room 113 was like any other in the damp hallway. Ivan’s first forceful knock yielded nothing. The second time, the door gave way and creaked open. The sight inside took the breath out of the barrel chest of The Russian Bear.

The unit was shrouded in suffocating darkness, broken only by the erratic flickering of a monitor in the middle of the room. The bed sat lopsided and unkempt, its once-white sheets now yellowed and stained. The walls were a shade of bile, marred with watermarks and peeling wallpaper that revealed decaying rot underneath.

In the center of the room, sat Jonathan-Christopher Hall, wearing nothing more than the grungy hotel bathrobe, heavily worn in by the countless others who checked in before him. He had dragged a small table along with him and rigged up the monitor, where he watched with rapt attention on a small stool. The monitor faced away from the doorway, and the light of the video cast an eerie shadow beyond the hunched Hall, who nibbled on his fingernails anxiously.

Ivan was bombarded with a dizzying array of images and words that made his head spin. The walls were plastered with photographs of PRIME personalities. Scribbled notes and arrows pointed to each face, making it seem like some kind of twisted investigation board.

Words, literally etched in marker on the decaying walls, were more unsettling. 

BLONDE HAIR

WHO IS BLONDIE?

WHO ARE YOU???

This was a den of madness and obsession, and Ivan knew once he was inside there was no way out. He spoke, and his words, logical and sensible, were consumed by the room. Hall made no indication of his presence.

“Jonathan-Christopher!” He boomed louder, but the boy didn’t remove his eyes from the monitor.

Typically fresh faced, many wondered if Jonathan-Christopher could even grow facial hair. His eyes sagged, showcasing dark circular bags, describing someone who was sleep deprived for days, if not weeks. While indeed proven true, he could not grow facial hair, he had gouge marks from his fingernails going up and down his jawline.

Could he hear The Russian Bear? Did he want to?

“Jonathan-Christopher, it is Ivan.” He spread his arms. “What are you doing here?” Stanislav walked around the monitor to stand next to the former champion.

The Louisiana native didn’t acknowledge. In fact, he leaned forward and directed his head that much closer to the television monitor. His eyes shifted from right to left, left to right, completely fixated on the screen.

To outsiders, it was undetectable. But those who knew Ivan, knew. Despite his strict upbringing and bleak outlook, the Red Army strongman was capable of compassion.

Before him was a broken, abandoned, discarded, and struggling man. Ivan had seen too many men like him, sacrificing everything for their careers and paying the price. Jonathan-Christopher was in his prime, with a devoted wife, legitimate title run, and yet he still suffered. It stirred up Ivan’s own emotions and memories long buried within.

Still, leaving his Motherland, traveling to KFC, meeting Vickie Hall, and ending in this horrible motel was one hell of a long day.

The sound of Ivan’s backhand echoed through the walls as if it were thunder. Ignoring any urge for sympathy or remorse, he grabbed Hall by his flimsy robe and slammed him against the wall.

“You stupid son of bitch!” His roar echoed throughout the unit while Hall remained unfazed by the physical assault. “We have a match, and I will not allow you to screw up my chance at revenge!”

This wasn’t the first time the boy witnessed the Russian’s angst. It was, however, the first time Jonathan-Christopher did not tremble. Rather, Hall was a ghost, in a trance, continuing to keep his eyes glued to the monitor behind Stanislav. Could JC see around the massive shoulders of this behemoth? No, Hall was so engrossed in the footage he was trying to look through Ivan’s body.

This absence of recognition caused Ivan to deliver a sharp slap that rang Hall’s ears. “Look at me!”

Jonathan-Christopher careened through the air and landed in a lump next to the monitor, but was unfazed. Eyes locked on the screen, it was the only thing that held his full attention.

To Ivan, the display was a scrambled mess of blues and whites and silvers. If he had a younger man’s eyesight, maybe he could’ve made out the haunting details.

“What?” The grizzled veteran shouted, pointing at the screen. “Footage of your failure to defend MY Title?” His assumption was so wrong.

With a single motion, Stanislav knocked over the monitor and punched the tape player as Jonathan-Christopher’s right arm shot up from the ground. JC screamed in agony with a “no!”

Knowing this captured Hall’s attention, Ivan grinned and went a step further.

The tape dangled from the player, its frayed edges barely holding onto the spools inside. Ivan’s sly smirk morphed into a malicious grin as he plucked the tape and snapped the plastic case in half. He tore out the film like they were an animal's entrails. Hall watched in horror.

Jonathan-Christopher’s voice trembled as he shouted, “Don’t you fucking dare!” He threw himself at Ivan, ramming his shoulder into the man’s broad chest. Stanislav dropped the tape in surprise while, rather than following up, Hall collapsed to the floor, sobbing loudly. He tried to salvage the mangled film, but it was too late. The sight of its destruction only intensified his cries of sorrow.

“There,” Ivan dusted his hands. “No more distractions.”

Jonathan-Christopher clenched his fists tightly and lifted his gaze to meet the Russian’s. His expression was one that even Vickie wouldn’t recognize. Stanislav took a step towards the door and swung it open.

“Why!?” Hall begged, “Why would you do this!?”

Ivan turned to see an unexpected sight: a wide-eyed, near frothing Hall standing with his fists in front of him. “I ASKED YOU A QUESTION, STANISLAV!”

Far be it for Ivan not to answer.

He shut the door and faced Jonathan-Christopher. 

–BLACK–

International travel had taken its toll, and when Arina awoke, Ivan was in the driver’s seat of the van. She stared at him through half open eyes. How long was he sitting there? The veteran gripped the steering wheel, but his eyes were distracted.

His hair was mussed, and part of his beard was darker. His brilliant white uniform had tiny red speckles all along it. Ivan looked over at her. He looked winded.

“We had a productive conversation.”

“Starshy Praporshchik?” Arina asked uncertainly.

Ivan sat there and didn’t acknowledge her. His collar was torn open and his uniform wrinkled. What took place?

“Put Victoriya on speaker, please?”

Arina complied. The phone rang but once. Arina opened her mouth to speak, but it was no use.

“Hello honey! Oh goodness, Ivon, so nice to hear from you!” Her voice, like scratches against a chalkboard, mercilessly pierced through the intercom. “Did you have any success finding MY MAN!?!?”

“Victoriya. Yes, we found your husband and straightened him out. He will be back in your loving arms soon. Everything is going to be okay…”

The conversation eventually ended but Ivan’s monologue with himself didn’t. Arina heard him whisper to himself several times while he drove. What force inside that hotel haunted him?

“...everything is going to be okay…”

—

Epilogue

On his hands and knees, crawling frantically around the floor, blood gushed from his mouth and sweat filtered off his forehead. Fixing the monitor was one thing. However, rolling back the crumbled film had become extremely difficult, if not near impossible. He’d been at it for the past two hours, since the moment his teammate stormed out of the compound.

How could he do this!?

Why would he!?

Carefully. Carefully, carefully, carefully, he pressed his right hand against the floor, with the tangled tape deliberately caught in the middle. It was a challenge to position the film in such a way where the blood seeping out from his mouth wouldn’t create further obstacles, so instead, he closed his lips and swallowed the rush of blood back to where it came from.

Should he be in a hospital bed? If only he could see the images burnt into the physical tape, because it was all still there. Not ripped or disintegrated, just crushed and wrinkled. He prayed, oh he prayed so hard, prayed the footage would not be destroyed and his hand would iron through the bends and twists.

He slowly walked to the monitor. He closed his eyes, held his breath and helped the tape into the system.

…

Nothing.

He could feel his chest tighten. His heart skipped a number of beats.

“No,” he squeaked, pleading for mercy. “No, please, not this way.”

…

Nothing.

His foot stumbled backwards, and bile and blood erupted from his mouth. Metallic taste lingered upon his tongue, a reminder of his “conversation” with Ivan. He had been angry before, but this was something else entirely.

WHAM!

He slammed his right fist against the top of the monitor.

“AAAAHHHH!!! AAAAHHHHHH!!! AHHHHHHH!!” came the sounds from within the scrambled picture.

His eyes went wide; the footage was restored!

As the wash of whites and grays filled the screen, strongly suggesting proof of his wife’s shocking affair, Jonathan-Christopher felt a rush of relief-

“AAHHHhhhhHHhhhhhhHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhh—.........hhh….ahshjktlllllhhlt-”

The already scrambled footage was completely white washed. The minor images the human mind could partially scrape together upon watching this clip, now torn through the center, never to return. That specific blonde hair pulled in all four directions, as the VCR made a horrific munching sound.

Hall pressed the eject button profusely. He dug out the plastic cassette tape, revealing the film was now permanently shredded.

“NO!”

His chest tightened. His fists shook harder. His eyes bugged out of his head.

He reached for his notebook and ripped it wide open, revealing names scribbled throughout.

ADAM ELLIS BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD? CLAY BYRD CANCER JILES CORAL AVALON JASON JACKSON KENNY FREEMAN NATE COLTON …and so on

“YOU DICKLESS FUCK!” Hall cried. In many ways, he would be surprised a boy of his nature could say such a thing.

But he was nowhere near himself.

“You sabotaged me!” It was difficult to enunciate when he hadn’t stopped regurgitating blood.

“Did she put you up to this!? Did she!? DID SHE!?” He yelled, as if waiting for an answer from someone who wasn’t there.

He menacingly jotted a name at the bottom of the page.

“Ivan. Fucking. Stanislav!” Jonathan-Christopher cried in hysterics. “I am going to murder you!”

He fell into his chair and sobbed uncontrollably at the thought he’d never lay eyes on the footage again.

“You will be the first to die.”