Psychogenic Hypno Syncope, and a Brief Mention of Bashcoin

POST CULTURE SHOCK (Not long after Ben Lynch and Blaze Claymore fought several miles up the Japanese rail system and beat the ever-living shite out of each other during the Manhunt event that PRIME held in Tokyo.) He told people that he knew how to control the blackouts. Some believed him, but Ben's blackouts are unpredictable. Psychogenic blackouts are pseudo seizures and Ben is privileged to have a rare version called Hypno Syncope.

For those of you following along: he faints, and then is suspended within a hypnotic state for 30 minutes. His eyes roll back and go pale. Veins on his forehead thicken, and pulsate. The instant thrust into this vegetated state sends a shock wave of endorphins that opens the floodgates for an intense rush of perspiration. That's a fancy way of saying that he sweats profusely when this occurs.

This usually tends to happen after a physically overwhelming and mentally taxing wrestling match. But, they can happen anytime.

Ben briefly mentions in his memoir that these spells lead to an extremely vivid dreamscape. He's carried away to the year 1992. Ben is five years old, the number one hit was “End of the Road” by Boyz II Men, and Aladdin grossed over $217 million beating films such as Home Alone 2: Lost in New York, Batman Returns, Lethal Weapon 3, and A Few Good Men, while Scott Hunter celebrated his 15th year in the wrestling business.

It's quite ironic, given the recent events involving Ben Lynch and PRIME, that 1992 is also the end of the Cold War.

What a year. Prince changed his name to the symbol, or Artist formerly known as. Sinead ripped the Pope in half on Saturday Night Live. We’re literally one year shy of Mike Judge’s historic animation feat: Beavis and Butthead. Gas was around a buck a gallon. This was the start of a new cycle, a very important cycle, and a change that would alter Ben’s existence.

It’s always 1992. It's the same ugly shag carpeted room in that tiny canary yellow house on Pulaski Street, in Indiana. It’s the CRT television with the pseudo-wood grain box, antenna, and hand dials sitting on a small cheap gold-chrome television stand that you could wheel around the room. Sports cards are all over the floor with some creating a canopy for fallen action figures. There’s a bunk bed in the corner where Ben slept on the top, and his brother on the bottom.

The television always powers on by itself during this dream stint. This peaks Ben’s attention considering the television didn’t come with a remote control, and it had to be powered on by a knob. The image bursts onto the convexed screen.  Ben’s eyes focus onto the image of his face trying to focus on his face that’s on the other side of the television. It’s all so confusing, but he’s basically looking at the same thing the television sees: himself. The image on the television suddenly freezes. Ben tilts his head, and then looks around the room to spot who may have paused the feed. He’s all alone.

“Hey there,” a voice says from the abyss.

Ben continues to look all around the room while still being crisscross applesauce before the television. He doesn’t see anyone with him. He doesn’t hear any noises that could entice him to go seek the hidden voice. He’s alone.

“Over here,” the voice is coming from the frozen image on the television. “Look at the TV,” the voice continues. “Look at yourself,” it says again as Ben adjusts his glare at the screen. The lights go off in the bedroom so that only Ben’s face is illuminated by the glow of the television.

“It’ll be too difficult to go in depth and describe what you’re going through,” the voice continues as Ben stares at a frozen image of his face, “so I’ll do my best to put this into layman's terms,” then the frozen image is gone. Everything is black.

Ben can feel himself tugging for words, but no sound leaves his mouth. Moving is useless because he’s stuck in a state of beyond consciousness where control is often in the hands of outside forces; often ill-natured. The darkness is interrupted by an explosion of white on the television screen. Ben’s pupils dilate as the glow highlights his astonished visage.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” The voice shouts and is followed with a drumroll that’s accompanied with very enthusiastic trumpets. “It’s time for…” and then a studio audience shouts along with the voice, “SOUL SUCKING…TONIGHT!” The music continues to peak as the screen fades into stage curtains that begin to open. A single cell, dressed in a well tailored suit, floats out and greets the audience with a very awkward, wiggly, grin.

“Here is your host,” the voice continues as the dapper organism dances around the stage to the funky beat of the intro music, “...NUKE…LEUS!” And the crowd goes wild as the cell shadow boxes, throws its globular suited appendages in the air, and celebrates climbing the imaginary stairs of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. The music, and the crowd's wildly unnecessary celebration, slowly fades.

“Ah-ha-ha-allll-right!” the host cell gargles. “We’ve got an excellent show for you tonight, folks,” and the audience continues to cheer. “Yes,” the host continues, “we’ve got a live look into the reasons as to why Ben Lynch is such an oddity of the universe,” the crowd cheers more but the cell keeps listing the shows agenda, “we’ve also got an intense analysis on situations occurring within Ben Lynch that, due to age, may require medical intervention. This is all topped off with a special guest, Ben Lynch’s nervous system, which is currently being destroyed by maturity, his lifestyle, caffeine, work, opiates, alcohol, and professional wrestling.”

The crowd erupts with the news that Ben’s nervous system will be a special guest on tonight’s episode of Ben’s Hypno Syncope. The cell extends its amoeba-like tentacles toward the crowd, which isn’t an audience at all, it’s just the vastness of black space and a plethora of dying stars that are screaming while they explode into a black hole.

“They’re going to defeat you,” the cell says and directs its attention to the youthful Ben as he continues to watch the show. “These are the layman’s terms. They’re going to embarrass you, exploit you, and show the entire world that you’re a fraud. They’ll show everyone that you’ve always been…fraudulent. How do you plead?”

Five year old Ben Lynch suddenly projectile vomits and sends a fire hose of acidic innards toward the television. This isn’t any ordinary retch, no, this is the plaid regurgitation of Ben’s soul. The television screen splits into two, creating a mouth that opens, and Ben’s disgorged soul flies inside its gullet. The device gulps down Ben’s essence, a static filled tongue slurps up any leftovers that may have stuck to the screen, and then the television lets out a crisp and sharp sigh of relief.

“It’s the taste of honey after a climactic ejaculation,” the host states as its image returns to the television screen, and it claps its limbs together. “The taste of your soul as I visit to, yet again, devour it so that you may, potentially, seek shelter within the arms of success in the not-so-distant future. Small print: potentially. There are no guarantees. There’s only satisfaction in the feeling that you have the possibility to wake up the next morning with the Alias Championship wrapped around your naked waist like a $5 Indonesian hooker. But, that’s how Ben Lynch works, ladies and gentlemen,” the scene suddenly cuts to the host floating behind a desk, “he makes it this far only to sell himself out for the feel-good notion that he might leave the Saddledome as a champion of PRIME. He’ll disappoint himself, and then commit social suicide. We all know how this story goes.”

The epidermis around Ben’s youthful eyes suddenly shifts, morphs, darkens, and looks like rough leather. The white around his hazel eyes transforms to a web of bloodshot. An innocent forehead is now an artist’s homage to years of frontal lobe abuse; a risk one is willing to take within the confines of professional wrestling. The removal of his soul has drained Ben of his youth, and he now sits before the television at the age of 39, sullen and masked with sadness, a man possessed with inadequacies and post-traumatic stress. A man defeated by the boulder and chain that he locked to his ankle years ago, and then lost the key in a flood of emotions.

The days of innocence and youth are gone. The shell of a defeated man is all that remains seated before the television. The once electric atmosphere has been immediately sucked from the room with not even a morsel left to prove such a vibe existed. Now, the sagging representation of posterity, scorched and rubbed raw, blankly stares at the host cell. The sudden feeling of gloom hovers above, as if the acceptance of death has been claimed long ago and the scythe can be let loose at any moment to set Ben free from the grind of his metaphorical rusty shackle.

“There he is,” the host cell says with a welcoming grin. “A sight for sore eyes. You’re a wilted rose atop bedrock. The magnificent image of what life looks like when it accepts the fact that you’re just a single plane of existence from one point to the next; the pinball representing the circle of life. Your narrator states that you’re a defeated man, yet I see a warrior. Within every pocket of those wrinkles, the way they curve and direct their pattern across your Appalachian skin, there’s a hidden tale describing the defining moment of a man that came undone at the right place, and the right time.

How many times have we done this dance, Benjamin? A dozen, thirty, a couple hundred times? Yea, it’s been a lifetime of getting to this point and realizing that you’re just…out of reach. Everytime. The tips of your fingers touch it, graze it, but it’s not enough to latch on and make it yours. You’re the guy in the story that finds ways to win the battles, but can’t bring it all together to win the war. Everytime. The opportunity presents itself and you always find a way to lose it.”

Ben’s brow furrows, his index finger trembles, and his nostrils flare. Control is something Ben’s known for in reality, but in the dream world he’s without the comfort of its embrace. This is a major discovery, and that realization is written plainly across Ben’s face. He knows that he can destroy the television, and he plans to.

“You couldn’t beat Blaze Claymore,” the host continues, “so there’s no reason to believe that you’re going to defeat Sebastian Gold. How you even got this far is one of those mysteries of the modern world. You don’t deserve any of this, Ben. None of it. You’re one of the worst professional wrestlers on the planet. You serve only one purpose in PRIME, and that’s to be fodder for the superstars that -” and then Ben’s fist shoots through the convexed glass screen of the television so that his knuckles burst through the bulbous back end.

Sparks flicker, smoke billows, from the internal schematics surrounding the fleshly plug clogging the television’s new wound. Ben removes his fist and then spends a moment to observe any lacerations or potential reasons to be concerned. The cherry on top is the light tap he gives the TV stand so that it all goes tumbling backward and crashing to the floor in a heap.

“Wake up Mr. Lynch,” Ben says as he looks down at the deceased television. Ben’s face violently shoots to the right as if he’s been ferociously slapped. “Wake up!” Ben shouts, and then his face shoots the opposite direction. This pattern rotates three more times until Ben is suddenly drenched with water from nowhere.

Ben wakes up, soaked in sweat, caked in coagulated blood, laying outside the Tokyo Dome, and surrounded by medical professionals. The sun is rising over the beautiful Japanese landscape. The flashing lights of the emergency vehicles reflect off surrounding windows. Ben’s face is swollen, his right eye black and blue, and a chunk of his facial hair is missing. There’s a noticeable gap in his mouth that wasn’t there prior to Manhunt. He’s limping as he rises, his left foot is tilted inward, and he’s favoring his right shoulder. He’s still in his gear from Manhunt, which concluded hours ago.

The Tokyo medical team takes a few steps back while Ben rises at the nucleus of their circle. His body is brittle and joints crack as he adjusts to stand erect. He grimaces as his muscles go into overdrive in an attempt to walk, so he stumbles, and then nearly returns to the ground where they found him.

“Did…did I…” Ben mumbles as he catches his breath, “...did I win?” He asks the crowd as bloody drool dangles from the corner of his lip. A tiny pupil can barely be seen through the opening of his puffy right eye.

“Nah,” a young man says behind the medical staff, “Cancer won,” he finishes.

Ben might be trying to smirk? It’s hard to describe what’s happening behind that face, but the use of imagination is key to understanding how the rest unfolds. Bloody drool continues to leak from his swollen lips. He looks to the right and gazes at some of the medical staff, then he slowly turns to the left. Finally - he turns toward the direction of the man that answered him. He makes a slurping noise and tries to suck up the crimson dangle hooked to the corner of his mouth.

“Cancer Jiles?” Ben mumbles the question through numb gums. “Ha,” he slurps a final time, “he sucks,” and then the processor shuts down. Ben falls face-first to the floor. A few of the medical officials jump at the thud his body makes when it collapses to the ground. Some of them then spring into action and begin to take care of Ben as he lies motionless in a puddle of defeat.

A few days later (Or, a few days ago depending on how you look at it.)

Ben Lynch didn’t win Manhunt. No, as a matter of fact, he wound up in Ogikubo on a physical play date with failed actor-turned pro wrestler Blaze Claymore. They fought throughout the train and used everything imaginable in the process to hurt each other. It’s a miracle that these two men are still capable of telling the story, let alone having motor functions and the ability to urinate without standing sideways. It’s also a miracle there’s no pending lawsuits.

They should have been dead when they threw each other off at Musashi-Sakai Station. They were more alive than ever. So much so that they were able to then walk from Musashi-Sakai back to the Tokyo Dome, which is a long walk. They may have looked like the walking dead, but the Japanese civilization let them drift by without judgement until they each disappeared into the night.

In Ben’s case: until he collapsed outside the Tokyo Dome.

“Wow, nobody asked me to suck anything, so I’m a little confused as to why I’ve been graced with such a glorious opportunity?” Ben says. “A shot at the Alias Championship? A chance to slap around Sebastian Gold in a wrestling ring? A chance to show jerks like Cecilworth, or Cancer, that I’m the next big kahuna in PRIME? Where do I sign? Oh, it’s already official? Well, then tap me on the nuts, dear Watson, because Benjamin Stronger-than-Ox Lynch is walking right past the Mounties, sliding into that beautiful ring, and then leaving it a little heavier and with more jewelry. You’re looking at the next PRIME Alias Champion, friends. Yessuh. Take a good gander; soak it all in. By ReVival 66 you’ll have a new Five Star Champ in Steve ‘Don’t Talk About My Nipples’ Harricle, and new Alias Champion in Ben ‘single-handedly the greatest acquisition in PRIME history’ Lynch.”

“A new era is upon us. I know, and it’s a hard pill for me to swallow. Sebastian Gold has done so well, and his 56 day reign will go down in the annals of Alias Championship history as a decent little side note underneath my historically monumental run. I’ll give him that much considering he’s such a well known item in the addiction community. We hear all about Mr. Gold and his ability to overcome the obstacles. Loddy-freakin’-da! What a cocka-mamie excuse of a hero.”

“You're a hero, Bash? Have you heard yourself lately? Have you listened to your thoughts? You're pathetic, brother. If anyone knows pathetic then it's me. And, you're most undoubtedly one of the most pathetic people in this company. You disgust me beyond belief. I hate you, Sebastian Gold, and I hope that drives you to do unthinkable things to me at ReVival 65. I hope that the flood of my venom over-stimulates your rage so that you do exactly what God intended, and what Blaze Claymore couldn’t: for one of God’s children to end me so that I won’t wander His Earth any longer as a passive-aggressive douchebag that can't seem to find the good in anyone, or anything.”

“You wanna know what chaps my rear-end? You're not even organic! Oh, great, another failed actor? You didn’t want to do this in the first place! The film industry was your first love, with a hot man being your second. Wrestling is just a third. This is just a rebound! You don’t want this. The host cell thinks that YOU are going to out ME as the fraud? Well, I beg to kindly differ. You, Sebastian Gold, are the fraud. You know what else is gold and fraudulent? Bitcoin. You’re like PRIME’s cryptocurrency! You’re Bashcoin! Or, Bitchcoin.  Whatever you prefer.”

“You mentioned once, during a meeting, about getting three options in life. The one difference in those three options changes the entire fabric of the situation. You chose two careers. I chose a career, and a lifestyle. I've devoted my entire life to this business, and that's regardless of how the narcotics slowed down my trajectory. I've been doing this, scratching and clawing at the bottom, longer than you've been alive. I'd climb to the top of the mountain and fight the king only to notice someone else got there first. They took a different route. So, I’d repel down and try again. Up, and down, over and over, never once getting upset that it was someone else’s time. I've never had my shot, and I've always accepted that. It was just never my time.”

“It's funny what one choice in life can do for a person at a specific time, a specific place, and a specific event. In my case? A long, long, long life of living inside the ring and taking every single beating, or relishing in every beautiful moment. I’ve got the finesse. Action Bastion? You're just getting started. You might have beat me to the top of the mountain, but I’m right back at the peak, and it doesn’t look like anybody else is coming the other direction.”

“I will not walk out of Calgary without the Alias Championship in my grasp. You may best me in that glorious ring. But, that won't kill me. I know how, and where, to find you. I'll finish what I fucking started. One way, or the other.”

Ben’s eyes light up when he hears his daughter.

“Daddy, you said a bad word!” She exclaims. Macey, Ben’s beautiful nine year old daughter, is sitting next to his hospital bed and playing a game on her tablet. Ben adjusts his hospital gown and looks guilty.

“Oops, is that the first time you've heard that word?” Ben asks. Macey shakes her head indicating that she’s heard the word before. Ben sighs, and then smiles. “Ok, great, then we're fine. You’re not allowed to say that though. I'll ground you from your tablets.”

“Ok,” Macey responds. Her eyes have not left her tablet since she announced she was present in the scene.

“Don’t worry,” Ben says as he looks away from his daughter and directs his focus at Sebastian Gold, “we can revise history if you don’t want your Alias Championship reign to be remembered. Good luck in your hunt to find a husband, Bash. I’m just glad to know, aside from being married to a woman for ten years and having three kids with her, that I’m divorce material. But, you will have to get a receipt for calling me a Jerkass Woobie. Well, your friend called me that. Still, it’s your receipt, and that’s my belt. Bring the stipulation. I’ll see you at ReVival, chum.”

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