Death To The Monomyth

Brandon’s eyes scoured the neon of the Vegas Strip from his balcony on the twenty-eighth floor at the MGM Grand, phone in hand. “I’m not doing this because I think it’s a good idea. Getting in bed with High Octane and whatever else? It’s stupid. And the people here should know it.”

“Then why are you doing it?” Angelica Brooks wasn’t conducting an Undergroundcast interview; no, this was part of a personal project. The gathering of hours of intimate conversations and understanding about the return of PRIME, and its trajectory, from the perspectives of those ensconced within its structure. “Why go out to Chicago for that morning show tour? Why not just be like Phil and make it clear you’re focused solely on PRIME?”

The emblem of the Grand’s lion stared back at him from its totem, and as his eyes scanned, he caught glimpse of himself, clad in singlet, flashing across the LED board. A stern gaze. The Universal Championship rested upon his shoulder.

‘The PRIME Destination of Las Vegas.’

The transition was smooth, the scene halved as the number one contender and Glue Factory Proprietor, Phil Atken, occupied the other side. August 12, 2022. Universal Championship Match. Not just a fight; The Fight. “That’s just spin put out there by people who don’t know shit.”

“I don’t know if it’s spin–”

“You do know. More than most ever could.” A sigh. Exasperation. “PRIME is home. PRIME, in my eyes, has always been the standard in this sport. I want it to be again. No question. And we’re getting there.”

“But...”

His words seized upon her trailing. “It doesn’t stay that way by living in a bubble. It doesn’t become more than an attraction if it stays where it is. If PRIME is going to last, if it’s going to be greater than it was...then it needs to be out there in the world. For the world.”

“And I imagine you view yourself as the vanguard of that.”

“I’m at the head of the table right now. But whether I am or not...that’s to be determined in the ring, just like it always has been.”

“The big arenas. Stadium shows. Lots of money going into your pocket–”

“--OUR pockets.” He iterated. “What a horrible thought. You heard what that fucking Pit paid its wrestlers? How much that regressive fuck raped his workers for while lining his own pockets? I’m not going to apologize for wanting a world where you don’t have to pick up shifts at the gas station just to make ends meet. Or asking people if they want fries with that so you can qualify for health insurance.”

“Then WHY get in bed with them? Why legitimize them?”

“To show the world the truth. Because they’ll implode. And when they do, we take the best wrestlers and minds around from there and everywhere else because this is where they should be. Working here. Getting paid here. Fighting here.”

Her pause was notable, the nib of her pen loud as she scrawled across her notepad. Peas of the same pod, the two of them, given how they attacked their craft. “You’re in an ideological war with the man you’re about to face, and he’s talked all about the future in terms that make it seem like Elysium. And he’s framing it like he–”

“--because he has that luxury.”

“Why?”

Neon bled into the stars. “Because whether it’s just Vegas or the world, Phil Atken doesn’t give a shit as long as it all falls under his vision. And where does that vision come from? It comes from a talented and skilled fighter filled with disdain who is finding himself later in life. Some of that is warranted. But the man was also a people pleaser who made a lot of effort to not please anyone. He wasn’t gifted with natural talent. He wasn’t a phenom. He had to work at it. And until now? I think if you asked him, deep down, and he was honest? He’d tell you he would do things differently.”

“Sounds familiar...”

A riposte. “No. I had the talent from the jump. The shit between the ears, though? That was where I had to work.” His fingertips skimmed along the steel of the balcony’s railing. “Can you imagine what he’d do if he got in the ear of someone like Hanlon? Or Colton? Or FLAMBERGE...”

“Kind of shocked nobody has taken him up on his offer, if I’m honest.”

Brandon turned away from The Strip, looking into the soft light of his suite. The unmade bed and his CPAP supplies on the nightstand. Half a pizza laid out on his desk, the pepperoni uncured, the crust cauliflower. “Hayes doesn’t see PRIME his way because of what it was when he was growing up. Nate? He’s got a lot of structures around himself as safeguards, especially with as much respect his father commands in the sport. And...Julien...he needs to break free from his old man, from Darby...and just be his own man. Don’t know if he has ever had a time in his life where he was free from parasites and barnacles.” Reaching for the handle of the door, he slid it open, ready to step back inside. “They’re all the next wave, and I think they’re all going to be killers. But if Lavigne can overcome the bad advice and voices in his head...he might be the most dangerous of them all.”

Mechanical whirring. A faulty compressor? That wasn’t what drew Brandon’s attention to the vending machine in the Lawlor Events Center.

Mlem...mlem...mlem...

Winding on a never ending loop, the faintest crackle of static stretched across its underbelly. A beret and lizard regalia, a hit and run dash of teal and orange spray paint. In vandalism, the shoddy do-it-yourself quality didn’t matter; it was the thought that counted. Worn to the bone, exhausted and sore, the cost of business done and spent with Wilhelm Kael and an Iron Man comeback for the ages.

Even in victory, the Lizard King mocked him.

He always did. Regardless of the outcome. Win. Loss. Tie.

Oh God...the ties.

Every time a Goddamn tie.

The Tower glowered at the vending machine, the tempered glass glinting against the harsh light. How badly he wanted to throw his bag and break this thing open. Shatter it, ripping and tearing it to pieces. The sting of brass knuckles. The refrain that he was merely a trophy piece owed. The audacity.

After what FLAMBERGE had done to him. What he’d cost him over the last two years.

Mlem...mlem...mlem...

But he didn’t. Instead, a tingle against his thigh. He unlocked his phone. Nothing. A phantom vibration. Maybe it was Joe Fontaine. Then again, why would his ghost linger around here? The vending machine would be just as good at protecting him as the man it represented.

So much for Glue being family.

After the conversation and the reconciliation with Cody, family had been central in Brandon’s mind. How lucky and fortunate he was. The storm clouds were starting to clear. Except…

‘Ariel’ had yet to respond to any of his messages. Attempting to contact her was a lark. The Taciet days were ancient, and both of them had moved on. It was hard maintaining a relationship when all it was rooted in was asked for favors.

Hearing the emergency call from that night was tantamount to migraine. The pain from clarity trying to push on through sheets of inebriated fog. The reason for his inquiry was multiple. A need to find out who had sent the audio to his son in the first place. And the beginning of the call. The cut off preamble. Something within it…

Unread. He sighed, putting the phone back into his pocket, the strap of his bag loose in his grip.

Mlem...mlem...mlem...

Even now, the bastard couldn’t help stop himself from ridicule.

In front of his closet, Cody gripped his NECK COLLECTOR raglan, his eyes scanning over the iguana green. Down the right sleeve, the accomplishments of the man he’d invested the last two years cheering for. The titles of his Triple Crown. Twelve stars to mark the victories of his winning streak. War Games.

His fandom of FLAMBERGE was independent of any rivalry The Lizard King had with his Diamond father. It had nothing to do with the stories about FLAMBO brutalizing his abusive father and standing up for himself. It wasn’t that he cost his old man the Universal Championship. Or that he carried a sense of cool without a care in the world.

Adopting him as his favorite wasn’t done directly out of spite.

A see through lie.

The road wasn’t always roses. When Le Protagoniste became window dressing to make way for Tyler Adrian Best, he swore him off. No, it was The Bearded Dragon who needed to take out Brandon Youngblood. Had to. Nobody else could understand the why so intimately, with what had transpired with their own mothers…

The top had become a fixture for him. But things had become different since he’d spoken with his father. Since he’d spoken with Amy. All that time. All that investment. Now what? What to do when things so drastically change?

He did what felt natural; he tossed the raglan onto the closet floor, a socked foot kicking it into the corner.

He shed his skin.

Acheter de la colle. The pool of the MGM Grand. If walking through Heathrow for Culture Shock had been catharsis, returning here was for cleansing the soul. In truth, it had to be this way. PRIME had started in this space. More than that? It was where the mythology of Glue was spun. Two years and such a tapestry woven. The sheer escalation of the creation myth and what came from that one pull of the rope…

Swimming in these waters was sacrilegious for Brandon. Cecilworth should be off to the side, scolding Hank that he had three more minutes of pool time. Phil’s bandaged and swollen body should be soaking up the rays, that smug satisfaction spread across his face despite his soon to be non-ambilatory fate. And then there was him.

Mlem...mlem...mlem...

You are upset because you are not the me – and you were NEVER the me.

Mlem...mlem...mlem...

Gold rimmed sunglasses. The sheer pretension. Before he’d had a lick of true success in PRIME, The Lizard King was presumptive and vainglorious. Success hadn’t changed him; he was the same as he ever was.

The water was wonderful, all told. Amongst the cacophony of families, the remains of the figure they’d purported to have slain, glistening. Still here. Still standing.

Pissing in the baptismal pool of Glue.

Chlorinated water itch, despite loose clothes. Down the hallways of the MGM Grand. Not much had changed since PRIME’s residency. So many of the same staff, coming up to Brandon. ‘Oh wow, it’s so nice to see you.’ Nice to see you too. Hope all is well.  ‘Why aren’t you guys running the Grand Garden Arena?’ Not my call. ‘Haven’t heard much in the way of news about you guys and the arena and offices you were going to build.’ Don’t know if that’s still in the plans, sorry. He’d been craving teppanyaki for ages; there was no reason to have to wait until the Japan tour to get some when Morimoto’s was right there. Crossing the corner of the hallway, a familiar gurgling against his eardrum.

Mlem...mlem...mlem...

Another VENDBERGE. No spray paint this time; just heavy bolts of cray paper around its sides. Muted greens, the ripples akin to scales. He wasn’t alone. A pair of vendors were examining the machine, hands on their hips. “Getting really sick of cleaning this shit up, man.”

“Think this is bad? Condy is on the high school route. Them kids been having a field day on them busted machines.”

What a shock; others making a mess, FLAMBERGE idolized, and the adults having to clean it up. Youngblood scowled at the machine as he strode on by, until his eyes peered at the belly of the beast.

Mlem...mlem...mlem...

Memory. Tempered glass. Suddenly, he couldn’t hide the heaviness of his guffaw. Just like the one in Reno, this one was a perfect encapsulation of the man it was disfigured to celebrate; for all the style on the outside, the inside was empty.

Hollow.

Nervousness spread through Cody as he traipsed from his bedroom into the darkened hallway. Daylight savings. Amber faintly glowed across the hardwood leading to the family room. The television was on. Eagles at Commanders. Pre-game. His own football season was over. An early round exit from the playoffs. Still, over the course of the last two years, the Old Abes had changed from being an area punching bag to more than respectable. An undefeated regular season. Conference Champions.

He was going to be named All-State.

“You doing alright? You’re looking a little pale.” His mother asked from her spot on the couch, her fingers diligent as they worked their way through the needlepoint canvas that sat upon her oak cross-stitch frame. The lenses of her magnifier headset made her eyes appear comically huge. “There’s some tylenol in the kitchen if you need it.”

“If you’re sick, just keep clear of me,” Travis craned his head from his recliner, the top buttons of his flannel undone, a Miller in hand. “I just got done coughing up phlegm for the last month plus.”

For two years, in some form or fashion, this had been his plan. So many of his decisions, the ways he acted, the friendships damaged, it was all to keep this guarded. He’d built the moment up so much that it felt odd not just standing in front of the television and declaring intention. The why had changed. Just like his fandom to FLAMBERGE. Just like his anger toward Nate Colton and him having The Next Diamond bestowed upon him.

When FLAMBERGE took a side step to be a Best family goon, he figured if he couldn’t count on him, then he’d have to take care of his father himself. No more raglan. He couldn’t stand the sight of it. Why celebrate those who didn’t have the strength to stand on their own terms? Why not chart your own path and lead rather than follow the voice of someone else?

“I’m not going to college. Once I graduate from school, I’m going to start training to become a professional wrestler.”

Trial by combat.

You want to punish me for all the crimes I’ve committed to the sport of professional wrestling? You’re owed my neck? Then do what your living sizzle reel ass is incapable of doing; shut your fucking mouth and show, not tell. 

There’s nowhere to hide now. No multi-mans. No three-ways. You. Some slimy thing swaggering its shoulders, slithering forward on its soft, gutless belly. Figure out some hocus pocus, some goddamn razzmatazz to get people to think there’s depth underneath your layers of social anxiety and petulant weirdness.

I am so tired of everything about you.

The tip of Atken’s spear. An ignorant little dipshit so thirsty for a father figure that he swore a blood oath to a charlatan within seconds. Phil said I have to ‘own’ a ‘millisecond of distraction’ when you grabbed that rope and pulled it away, costing me the Universal Championship. 'The grass, it is certainly very green here'. Yeah? Did it distract you to the point where you slipped on it when he needed you most? Were you too busy lounging about the pool? Different paths forward. I regained the Universal Title. You drew inward as your Pathetic Corpse Proprietor wheeled on out of the picture as if going away for milk and cigarettes. 

Have you found the balls, after all this time, to tell him you’re sorry?

Judging by the state of Joe Fontaine, I’d say you failed at learning the lesson. Maybe if his brother was Nate Colton, his spirit would have confidence he might be avenged.

Bitch.

For two years, I’ve waited. But what would happen when the moment came...I didn’t know. See, even from that first match you had with Genevie Carlson, there was...something...about you that caught the eye. Practically from the womb, you were sharpened for this purpose. An edge. A fire. All visible even through all of Daniel Darby’s shit. Something in the upbringing. Child soldier eyes. Maybe you needed someone who could listen. Someone who could be there for you, and not say to you ‘don’t make the same mistakes I did, kid’ or ‘back in my day’ or ‘I see myself when I look at you’.

Someone who wanted to support you growing your own legacy.    

That didn’t think you were their little toy lizard. 

I’d say you know what it’s like to reach the summit only to have it stolen from you, but I can’t; Jared Sykes took it from you with no asterisks. Hell, even when I grabbed hold of you two years ago at Colossus, you weren’t cheated. I didn’t throw back a hoodie as blood rushed down your throat and tainted every goddamn thing I purport to hold dear. 

My crimes against you? Jumping you after winning back the Universal Championship? Hitting you with brass knucks so Kael can get a three fucking fall advantage in an Ironman? Stopping you at every point of the Triple Crown. Cutting off the longest winning streak in PRIME history. War Games. Sorry to burst the bubble of `Le Protagoniste`, but your memory is a bit fuzzy. Could it be that you’re famished because of all the necks you haven’t been collecting while you’ve been running that Tyler Adrian Best schedule over the past year? 

I’m done with this. 

Letting you saunter on by. You come after me for saying how much of a good guy I am, or how I’m the best in the ring? Shut up and fight. I’d say ‘imagine Henri’s face over mine’ but you probably already do that. 

Fuck you. 

You are the self aggrandizing sword of a self absorbed man turned martyr with a philosophical creation myth forged at my expense. The world at your very fingertips and you’ve done just as much to piss it away as you have to earn it. You wallow and call people bitch and have your little vending machines and cars and necks and mlem mlem mlem. Sitting there, all weird and bug eyed like it means something.

Two years plus. Phil was so full of shit that when PRIME became everything I knew it should be, he couldn’t even find it in the light. Open and for the world. THE proving ground in all of combat sports. For me. For everyone. For you. 

Greater than the ashes of any phoenix.

Look around you, Julien. This is how it was meant to be. You started it here. I will finish it here. The chips are down. You and I both know what’s at stake. Don’t get caught up in the glitz of Los Angeles. In trying to appraise the value of my neck. 

We stay in Vegas, we fight in Vegas. We are Vegas.

Two years.

You're not the hero of this story.

You’re just the dried up shedding.

A crack of the knuckles. The emblem of the lion of the Grand stared back at Brandon from his perch on the 28th. Despite the fact that PRIME had chosen not to return to the venue, the LED board was awash with advertising for the promotion. The same stoic expression he’d shown on the eve of Unlucky Thirteen glared back, only now, he was joined by someone with similar countenance. FLAMBERGE. November 15, 2024. Ironman. Not just a fight; The Fight of The Nightmare League.

The vibration in his pocket stirred him from his Andalusian Bull. No phantom sensations this time. It was ‘Ariel’.

-sORRY for radio silence

-strokes aren’t fun

-you seem to be doing well

-need something to occupy my mind

-got to be on my pc for geolocation

-gunna have to wait

-found this with my phone though

Through MMS came a link leading to a mega folder with a FLAC file. Thumbing to download it, he waited for it to complete before going back, readying to call and thank ‘her’. To see how ‘she’ was doing. A text chime cut through the attempt. Melissa. The words were in all caps.

-WE NEED TO TALK

-DO YOU KNOW WHAT CODY’S PLANNING TO DO?

-WE NEED TO PUT A STOP TO THIS NONSENSE

Suddenly, the audio file began to play. The hammering of knuckles against the bathroom door. The operator had yet to speak. Haggard breathing. His own. His gasps were followed by his own voice.

What he said was terrifyingly clear.

“I TOLD YOU EVERYTHING MELISSA! EVERYTHING! AND IT DIDN’T STOP YOU! IT DIDN’T STOP YOU! I COULDN’T STOP YOU AND YOU RAPED ME JUST LIKE HE DID! AFTER EVERYTHING MY FATHER DID, HOW COULD YOU–”

Hear him.

Mocking.

Mlem...mlem...mlem...