As You Were: Shooting Stars

An old college buddy rang me up, out of the blue, badgering me to go into the city for drinks. I agreed for old times’ sake but when the day came I procrastinated like I always do. His unwavering enthusiasm was well regarded however and I soon found myself dragging my heels through the streets as we hit a few old haunts and reminisced about good times and old worries. Too much of the latter and not enough of the former had me shirking back to the hotel against his wishes, but like a good friend he acquiesced. We’ll try again later, he said.

I took my second bath of the evening to wash away the anxiety while he ordered food, then we went outside for a smoke on the rooftop terrace. We watched clusters of shooting stars zip through the night sky amid newly mapped constellations that twinkled brightly with an almost bioluminescent cadence. We had the best views of the night sky of all the Five Capitals. I could tell my pessimism was rubbing off when he started on the subject of a mutual friend whose partner had apparently been sneaking money out of his account. His, not the mutual’s.

A great mesa, around which the city is built, dominates the skyline even from miles away. Built upon it is a gargantuan arm, nicknamed the Home Run, that slingshots ships into orbit which then drift until they reach the catchpoint station whereby the process is repeated. It goes on like that for a couple months before the ships finally reach their destination orbit. I don’t know how it works out there, and I’m no engineer, but if you were to hold out a pinky and thumb and rotate your wrist you’d get an idea of how the sling and counterweight work down here.

My grandfather was conceived in the same year that interstellar travel was declared possible and hadn’t even left school by the time it came to fruition. News of the expanded scientific horizon trickled down the money mountain past financiers and scholars until it reached the masses in the form of a blurb from some rubber-faced entertainer who remarked that the whole endeavour was “gonna rock!” and that he would be among the first to embark on the journey to the stars.

My father used to tell me none of this would have been possible without my great-grandfather – who I was apparently the spitting image of – and I wouldn’t even be standing here today if he hadn’t possessed a generational foresight that many others lacked.

On one of the platforms of the base at the foot of Home Run, two pilots are about to start another shift. The concrete building they approach is lined with little red elevator cabs that can transport staff to wherever their credentials allow. Secreted in the farthest cab closest to the barrier overlooking the city, a man with a familiar rubbery face is courting a naive blonde lady who seems eager to see more of the base. He tells her not to worry about it and suggests they cheat in the meantime, groping her breasts and sticking his tongue down her throat – remarking that "this is gonna rock!"

I don’t think the blonde lady is going to get her wish.

The pilot is discussing a sensitive personal matter with his co-pilot as they enter one of the elevators and ascend to the highest level. They are carried past a warehouse where another worker is finishing his shift. He's wearing a bulky mechanized suit of armor with a clear bubble helmet and coiled rubber connecting the arms and body together. His daughter waits for him outside the warehouse. He passes a slumbering form on his way to greet her, its head tilted and hands hanging limply by its side. The worker is suddenly assaulted by an animated cadaver, but neither he nor his daughter seem the least bit surprised. He treats the body like a receipt that has flown out of a grocery bag and stuffs it back inside the warehouse, not even bothering to subdue it before closing the doors.

The pilots take their seats in the cockpit of their rig and are soon floating through the ether after being slingshotted. They’re ferrying passengers as well as cargo. The pilot’s frustrations get the better of him and he jerks his steering wheel hard to the left, forcing his colleague to do the same to prevent the ship from tearing itself in two. He assumes command and course-corrects, all the while trying to talk sense into the pilot. The passengers don’t even notice the turbulence. From the rooftop terrace of the hotel in the city they appear to me as just another shooting star as the vessel punches through space dust.

I finish my cigarette and flick the filter into the gutter while I check my account balance. My buddy assures me that it’s just my anxiety playing up again, that his problems aren’t my problems, but I can’t help myself. The twelve figures remain the same minus the insignificant expense of our trip. He asks me if I feel like another drink and, though apprehensive, I relent and we return to the crawl.

I was leaning over the guardrail gazing into deep blue waters when someone snuck up behind me and tried to shove me overboard. Cyril was perched upon the second lowest rail by my side, head resting over crossed arms, as I recounted the dream I’d had the previous night. Indulging in fantasies was a rare notion to us both, given that we lived a life so many could only envision from behind closed eyelids, but after a gloomy holiday season – marred further by the passing of Adam Ellis – a goliath could be forgiven for spilling his guts.

Cyril was understanding of my temperament. Christmas lacked the warmth of the year prior, when both of us were winding down after a busy season in our respective fields. The Salazars Cyril and Cecil, along with their associates Coocoo Haggerty and his sister, saw out the year in their ivory tower toasting million-dollar deals while I enjoyed some respite alongside my everyman Seth Swithins and his wife Terri, both of whom were instrumental in the running of my mechamaniacal theme park at Parts Unknown. We were much more comfortable in our successes and familial surroundings then.

Shortcomings and insecurities bled through to sour what should have been a joyous occasion. I had my health, my wealth and the company of my best friend and longtime manager, his old friend and associate and even my driver. The depth of our relationships was much different to the love that Coral, Tony and Bobby had for their real families – or even whatever it was Cancer had with Vickie – but together my little unit could fend off the gripping malaise that tormented all lonely souls at this time of year with camaraderie, cutting banter and delicious food. It still wasn’t enough.

Resentfully, and with Stevie’s help, I dressed the mansion and farmhouse in fairy lights, wreaths and all the other bells and whistles while Cyril prepared a feast and tried his best to keep Coocoo from absconding with the brandy. In my funk I found fault in the placement of decoration, the distribution of portions and questioned the platitudes behind even the most thoughtful gifts. Cyril could tell my heart wasn’t in it from the get-go. I didn’t want to admit it but I was jealous of what the other Bandits had waiting for them at home, compared to my lot. I could have really done with the salve of a championship victory to remedy that.

I went through the motions for their sake despite the fact that all I really wanted was a reply from Tony. I should have been embarrassed by how many messages I left him after Colossus, should have just stayed my hand and let the dust settle. But we were so close to winning those tag titles, I could still feel the imagined weight of gold draped over my shoulder and smell the aroma of strap leather in my nostrils.

We didn’t win, but we learned. The game plan required only a minor tweak. We had the Wise Guys dead to rights. I bombarded Tony with assurances and apologies and when none of that worked I swore to have his back however he wanted to proceed even if it was to my detriment. Still no reply. I only wished to convey how ready I was to roll with the punches, how I wanted that for him as well. As bad as I felt I couldn’t imagine how hard he was taking it.

I have to persevere because there’s nothing left for me outside of this. So I first accepted that things might not go my way before I even stepped foot back in the ring last year. I swore to mother nature and father time that I would tow the line even if I couldn’t best them. When the wave of bastards descended upon me I vowed not to make a mountain out of a molehill or vice-versa, to consider each stepping stone carefully in order to identify constants and bolster my supernature. A hollow man is easily broken via hardway, and in the dying light finds himself hunted by the lion. By any other name I would have already faltered, but the Hessian soldier shows great strength whether it be at home or a long way from it. I have to persevere.

I held those beliefs even tighter as I sat by the fire pit on the night of the 3rd, lubricating myself with liquor to keep from fracturing after the news of another road warrior’s passing. I poured one out for Ellis, regardless of how little I knew him, while Cyril – equally drunk – pointed out the north star and waxed lyrical on the importance of guiding lights, always moving forward and cherishing each day. He forgave my impertinence over the holidays even as I chided him for the fact that the star he was poetically citing was at the complete opposite side from north and far brighter than the one he referenced.

He got as far as “well Neildy Glass -hic- says” before I changed the subject to his pal Coocoo. The old duffer had been with us since September and Cyril had mentioned on more than one occasion how fond he was of my profession, yet he’d remained at home while Cyril, Stevie and I travelled to Europe and around the U.S. for ReVivals and pay-per-views.

“I think it’s time Uncle Cooc joined us on the road,” I said to him in an attempt to redeem myself.

Cyril was taken aback at first. I thought it odd, considering Coocoo was always quick to chip in with a wry comment or observation regarding my work. He certainly seemed eager to immerse himself in the world of PRIME. If I hadn’t been so focused on re-establishing myself, proving myself to the Bandits or even giving the rub to an up-and-coming announcer, I might have accommodated Mr. Haggerty sooner. I wondered why Cyril didn’t jump right on the offer.

“Oh, really?” Cyril uttered soberingly. “That’s..a kind gesture, Angie. As much as he’d love to, I'm not sure he’d be up to it.”

“How so?”

“Have you seen him? The man’s in his sixties, gin-pickled, and can’t take three steps without coughing up a lung.”

“Well if he plans on dropping dead any time soon I’d rather it be in an exotic location, surrounded by people looking out for him, than being cooped up here alone and left to rot for three months.”

“But I-”

“-My mind’s made up. Go and tell him before he turns in for the night.”

He shuffled off, thinking I couldn’t hear him muttering something about passports under his breath.

“And Cyril?” I called after him.

“What?”

“Thanks for always having my back and..sorry for being such an ass the past few weeks.”

“No sweat,” he saluted sarcastically then left with, “and don’t apologize. You’ve been an ass for a lot longer than that – just ask Tony, Rose, LT or anyone else that’s ever had to deal with you.”

Ha.

“I wouldn’t know what to make of any of that,” Cyril said to me over the roar of the Pacific and the hum of the Octane as he tried to process what I’d told him of my dream. “Maybe don’t eat so much cheese before bed?”

“You’re thinking of a different Bandit,” I snorted. “I don’t know, it was just so..vivid.”

“An X-Files marathon’ll do that to ya,” he chuckled. Tape study hadn’t gotten off to the best start and so far the best suggestion for my match was to have it relocated to North Korea where, after the latest mandate, Crash Jackson would be completely powerless.

“Yeah maybe,” I sighed. Sunlight shimmered across the vast, desolate ocean like the twinkling stars from my memory. “I don’t know, something about it felt..real. Nevermind.”

And that’s when I felt the thud against my lower back. Whether it was supposed to send me hurtling to a watery doom or just scare the life out of me, neither objective was achieved. Cyril gasped, but I didn’t so much as flinch. The Grin had a serious look in his eyes when I turned to face him. Outside of the group dynamic this was the first time he’d come near me since we boarded. I said nothing and smiled.

“We need to talk,” he said with a surly tone, glancing at Cyril and then back to me. “Alone. Come find me when you’re done sightseeing.”

With that he was gone again. Cyril gave my thigh an enthusiastic slap with the back of his hand and showed me a thumbs-up when I looked down. “Must be about tagging. You heard the man, get your head out of the clouds and go see what he wants. I’m gonna go back to the bus and see if Coocoo’s still green around the gills.”

He waddled off across the deck before I could say anything. I took a moment to collect myself and followed Tony’s path before the misery of solitude could sink its claws in any further.

I wasn’t scolded or read the riot act, but something about Tony’s demeanour left me with a sense of guilt all the same. The “it’s not you, it’s me” framing of his diatribe resonated like a failing marriage where the blinkers are torn off to reveal a gaping chasm between both partners. I wanted to believe that my persistence had helped keep the embers aglow inside him, but from the way he chose his words, and delivered them, I couldn’t be sure.

As I wandered through the ship mulling over our talk I happened upon the least used of all the rooms aboard the Octane. The chapel was little more than a couple of dusty pews and an old cross hanging on the wall, but I could appreciate the aesthetic as it pertained to blotting out the bleakness of existence. I borrowed the space, ignoring God as I stole a moment of peace for myself to consider everything Tony had said, as well as my own place in the universe.

I wondered if He might actually be listening, or perhaps just playing a joke on me, when Cancer spilled into the chapel all of a sudden. Ragged and breathless. I said nothing as he skulked right by me without even noticing that I was there and took a seat in front of me. There was a note of trimethylamine in the air, actually more of a plume. I spoke softly so as not to startle him, but he jumped out of his skin regardless. I put a pin in my musings and probed him on his match, hoping to glean some insight that I could adopt for my own, but all he alluded to was a bit of button pushing.

I excused myself and promised at his behest that if I saw Vickie I’d send her off to the opposite end of the ship to give him more time to recuperate. Lucky for him then that I didn’t, as I made my way back up to the deck, because I’d have ratted him out in a heartbeat and laughed myself to sleep at the thought of him fighting for survival against her wiles. What a perfect match made in Hell, that pair.

The view beyond the guardrail was breathtaking at night. The Pacific was blanketed in ghostly alabaster from the dazzling moonlight, the stars shining magnificently all around me. I felt like I was back in my dream for a moment, at which point my legs tensed and a nagging familiar dread crept up them into my spine and jagged at my soul again. I gripped the railing and swung a leg over the side of the Octane, just to see how it felt.

I was brought to my senses in a flash and left completely awestruck. From the great beyond a ball of fire slashed across the night sky right before me, so bright that it lit up the whole deck. Had I blinked I might have missed it, and without realizing it had swung my leg back over onto the deck and gripped the railing even tighter. I don’t know if Cancer had been sent to me as a sign, down in the chapel under the shadow of God, but I thought it better to hedge my bets in any case.

So I closed my eyes and made a wish. Couldn’t do any harm, right?

I want you to know that I mean you no harm, Mr. Jackson. Beyond whatever it takes to pin you or make you submit at least. You seem like a nice guy, and you certainly have a way of standing out. Forgive me if I sound condescending but you remind me of a happy-go-lucky labrador, always barking bro at everyone and wagging your tail every time you see a hot dog. There’s an innocence about you that gives me pause. I might be an intimidating giant but even I draw the line at animal abuse, that’s more of a Red Army thing – or a Max Kael thing to be more precise. A monster like that wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet between those soulful eyes.

It seems you have unfinished business with Max, and considering who’s backing him that means you aren’t going to be taking me lightly. I wish you well in your crusade young man, you’re a valiant fighter and I hope you find what it is – or rather who it is – that you’re looking for. I realize we both have something to prove after Colossus, but you need to be aware that I’m not taking you lightly either. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you buddying up with Mr. Gold. If there’s even the slightest chance that Crash ‘N Bash were to become an official entity in the ring then it’s my sad duty to inform you that not only am I not taking you lightly, but I’m going to make an example of you.

The eGG Bandits are putting the entire tag division on notice. Tony and I were thrown together at the last minute and we nearly dethroned the champions on our first outing. With enough time we’ll become unstoppable. We’re coming for those titles and we’ll go through you and Sebastian or any combination from the Whoresmen, Red Army, Vae Victis or the Glueminati to get another shot at the Wise Guys. Our campaign starts with The Grin cutting a Cowboy Colossus down to size and the Murder Show proving that nice guys finish last.

At ReVival 61 I plan on snuffing out the Northern Light just long enough to get my arm raised. After that you’re free to go about your business, just as long as it doesn’t involve those tag titles. You’re a likeable scamp and it would be too harsh of me to say that your ass belongs to me, but at the rate you throw back those dawgs you should know – your ass belongs to the proctologist. So you might wanna take it easy on the processed meats.

Happy new year and best of luck, bro.