As You Were: Parabola

Listen to them, lying through their teeth. Look at their faces, and make no mistake about it; those are masks – glued on to hide the tears. We survived the Manhunt, not them. We conquered the most elite roster on the planet, together.

The sharp, biting aches of the Manhunt have long since dulled, coalescing into the gently thrumming malaise that echoes throughout my nervous system from decades of combat. I can remember the cadence with which the shots rained down on me, like blast beats, though I’m unsure who was responsible for the rhythm. I tell myself that it shouldn’t worry me, that I’m not supposed to keep track of every transgression committed during a thirty-two man iron man match – but I’d worked ReVival 63 in a fugue state. Jumping out of that frying pan straight into the fire of the Manhunt had compounded my consternation terribly.

Let the crumbs bleat about how old and frail you are. We know the truth. The spotlight that shines on you would blind and burn lesser men. You’re worth ten of them. Never forget that.

Despite my woes, my resolve never waivered. I’d taken a battering in order to fulfil my duty. I was bombarded relentlessly, worn down by a cascade of violence. Like a block of stone at the foot of a waterfall. But it takes millenia to beat a block into a boulder, for it to split into rocks that eventually crumble into pebbles which then get carried away by the current to be eroded into grain. I stand here unbroken by the forces exerted on me and undaunted by the passage of time. I will endure.

None of this happens without you. Tony can break balls, but he can’t move mountains. Bobby’s too sweet and pure to get his hands dirty. You don’t care if it’s your own blood or someone else’s – you just want to bathe in it. I need someone like that. I need you.

Cancer Jiles is the number one contender for the Universal championship, because of me. The greatest prize in the sport is within the grasp of the man who wants it more than perhaps anyone else to ever compete, because of me. Of all the factions in PRIME; the circumstantial Heroes, the servile Reds, the habitual Vae Victis, the jaded Whoresmen and Glue-bonded elitists – it was the reviled Bandits who reigned supreme. What does that say about everyone else’s beliefs? The blind faith that Battaglia, Jackson and Gold have that good can triumph? The unquestionable leadership that hinders Freeman, Schwartz, Dawkins and Rose? The disciplines that Kuroyama, Hunter, Byrd and RIA adhere to? The chaos that Dick, Williams and Daniels sow for Diamonds? The entitlement that Farthington, FLAMBERGE, Hanlon and Fontaine flaunt?

I know you spoke with Coral. Don’t worry, I’m not mad – I’m impressed. You take care to do your due diligence, and that tells me I made the right choice. It’s why I handpicked you.

All of it amounts to crumbs. Misguided, misplaced and misinformed, every one of them. When it mattered most, everyone else fell apart except for us. Grand schemes failed miserably, obsessions caused distractions and the rest just didn’t have it in them. We proved ourselves as the strongest unit in the company and, unlike the Glueminati after last year’s WarGames, we don’t plan on forgetting – or letting anyone else forget – what we accomplished in the biggest match of the year. No matter how many times we’re looked down on, written off or made a punchline out of – we find a way to turn the tables on our detractors.

You’re my armor. My war dog. My nuclear option. My Murder Shovel. We cannot be stopped. We are invincible. We will capture those tag team titles. We will bring the Universal title back to the Carton, together.

I could have kept the points for myself. I could have kept my attention on chipping away at Ivan Stanislav in another gigantic battle for the ages. I could have surrendered to my bloodlust and pulverized Chandler Tsonda on the concrete floor, then dragged him around to see what else I could get a sickening thud, crack or crunch out of his carcass with. But I didn’t. My sole aim was to protect Cancer Jiles at all costs. Despite the best efforts of some of the greatest wrestlers in the industry, I accomplished that goal. The longer the match went on, the more everything fell into place. Whenever doubt crept in, Cancer was there to remind us that victory was an inevitability – as long as we fought together.

For Coral.

He was right. I spent most of last year questioning his morality and methods – when I should have been paying attention to his results. Main event after main event after main event. Positioning himself for a Universal title shot and a 5-Star title shot instead of waiting to be handed an opportunity. Even stealing Vickie from Jonathan-Christopher Hall and getting away with it. While Tony, Bobby and I faltered, Cancer and Coral dominated. Coral was the face of the company all year long, and Cancer’s image was projected across his forehead for all to see. In all that time, not once were we scolded for our failures or made to feel less than equal despite the gap in performance. Cancer has always seen our potential and never given up on us. We’re Hall-of-Famers for a reason. Had we not pulled off the victory on Night 2, I might still have doubts – but the results speak for themselves. Cancer believes in us, and when we believe in Cancer – we can achieve anything. We are eternal, all this pain is an illusion.

Ha.

I gaze out across the Edmonton skyline as the sun dips below the horizon, from the comfort of the Presidential suite of the Marriott hotel overlooking Roger’s Place. I’m savoring the few nights I have here; the bed is like nothing I’ve ever slept on before, the bar is fully stocked and a steward is on standby to cater to my every need. I feel loose, and merry, tingling with a warm buzz from the delicious Scotch that’s been nurturing me for the past couple of hours. Several weeks worth of anxiety is gradually melting away and for the first time since Sydney, and despite being without a home, I’m starting to feel comfortable in my own skin again.

“This is the life,” Cyril affirms, hanging off the back of the couch beside me as we watch the world go by. He’s lazily sipping his Cosmopolitan through a straw, hugging the fishbowl glass with both arms.

I hum in agreement and smirk. You don’t get special treatment like this by dog-walking an entire roster and helping King Crumb to the top of the mountain, not on Troy’s dime.

“How long d’you think it’ll last?” He asks, punctuating the question with a little burp that sounds like the croak of a tree frog.

“Until we reach an agreement,” I say into my tumbler, necking the last gulp as one of my phones vibrates in my pocket. “It’s in the government’s best interest to keep us sweet. I’d be well within my rights to sell to the Russians or the Chinese, and they know it.”

“Careful,” Cyril cautions me, semi-seriously, between sips. “If they catch you talking like that, they’ll swoop in, scoop it up, call you a traitor and leave you empty-handed.”

“I know my rights,” I shrug confidently. “They might be providing the security at Parts Unknown, but they can only patrol the perimeter now that all the data’s been logged. The second someone steps foot on my property – and it’s still my property – that’s trespassing. If I find so much as one unaccounted footprint, or one microgram of that rock missing, I know exactly who to go after – and they won’t have a leg to stand on.”

“If you say so,” Cyril drawled, cocking his head.

“It’s all above board, trust me. Until everything’s finalized, we’re going to graciously accept whatever they graciously offer us – and kindly turn down anything that could be seen as us taking advantage or being taken advantage of,” I assure him as I produce my newest cell, pinched delicately between my index finger and thumb – with my pinky finger pompously extended.

It’s an old-school model, a chunky little thing – with buttons – unlike my personal smartphone or the one PRIME provided me when I re-signed. I tilt the bottom towards my face and talk facetiously into the mic, to whoever might be listening, to make my point. “We’re all friends here, isn’t that right?”

A scoff tainted with laughter escapes Cyril’s throat as he shakes his head. Either he’s amused by the joke, or simply the idea that I’m now a three-phone guy – a trait commonly found in drug dealers and CEOs. I’m a professional wrestler with three phones.

There’s something very interesting, other than the contact list, about this particular device. When unlocking it, and despite the lack of a prompt, the user is required to press their fingerprint to the screen to be scanned. Any attempt to enter an actual number results in a SWAT team being dispatched to the phone’s location. It’s the only unique feature, but it gives me a small thrill each time I use it. I feel like a secret agent, and I just know Cyril’s jealous. I don’t make a show of unlocking the phone, nor do I hide it.

Smartphones are so convenient these days, with their adjustable font sizes, that I still find myself squinting at the smaller text displayed on the cramped screen of this little brick. I hope I’ll get used to the difference, and pray this isn’t a sign that I need glasses – like Ivan.

No match found. No further action required.

From the view outside, Cyril turns his attention to me as I read and then delete the message – just as I’ve been instructed to – and pocket the phone. I return to the bar with my empty glass to request another refill. He takes eager sips through his straw.

“Well?” He asks as I return, before finishing his next mouthful, and a trickle of alcohol spills from his lips and dribbles down his chin. Rather than wipe it, he tucks his bottom lip behind the top and tries to syphon up the residue. With the way his front teeth protrude, he looks like some kind of weird, hissing bat. I can’t help but laugh.

“Battery’s low, that’s all. Relax,” I fib.

“Aw. Well, keep it fully charged so we don’t miss any updates.” He pouts, his excitement dissipating with a slump of the shoulders, and he goes back to surveying the sunset.

It’s better that he doesn’t know. We swore to keep the truth about Parts Unknown under wraps, especially after learning the true nature – and value – of the metal contained within the meteorite. While I trust him with that secret, I don’t know how he’d react if I were to tell him that I’d contacted my liaison with regards to analyzing footage from Night 2 of Culture Shock. He’d likely accuse me of stooging, an aspersion I could do without falling on the wrong ears – so better to keep him in the dark on this one.

There was a moment during the Manhunt where Joe Fontaine attempted to cut me down to size with his 7-iron. I stopped him in his tracks and suffered a punch to the dick for it, but something about that particular jolf club caught my eye. I’d never noticed before, not until I was up close and personal, that it appeared to be made from a strange metal. The cut and hue seemed familiar, cosmic in origin.

According to the message I received however, it’s different from mine – whatever it is. Which is a shame, because those jolf clubs are becoming a major headache for everyone – Bandits included. It would’ve been very satisfying to see it, and the rest of the jolf bag, confiscated from the Glue boys.

“The sooner this deal gets done, the sooner we can get settled again,” he adds after a pause. “I’m not saying I don’t appreciate these fancy digs, and the bus is comfy enough when we’re travelling – but it’s good to have roots somewhere, y’know?”

The remark irks me more than I let on. Ever since our visit to Berkeley, where Cyril, Coocoo and Stevie all saw firsthand how deeply the whole incident affected me, I’ve been subjected to placation and sentiments of bright sides and silver linings. I understand that they’re only trying to be supportive, but no amount of reassurance can return what was lost when the meteorite destroyed my home.

This isn’t the same as what’s going on with my career, where I at least stand a chance of finding my groove again and becoming the conqueror I once was – which, if I just keep listening to Cancer, is very likely. I can’t say the same for Cyril, Coocoo and Stevie. No matter what they do or how hard they try, I’ll never get back the mementos that defined my career; the titles, trophies, awards, photographs and articles that I held so dear.

What’s the point of settling down anywhere, just to spend the two weeks between shows staring at bare walls and mantles? I’d rather stay out on the road, touring, weathering the burden of displacement. At least out here, in the wild, I have the opportunity to be reminded of the good times, when fans come up asking for pictures and autographs and tell me about their favorite matches, feuds and moments that I was a part of. A house is not a home, so until I can refill my next trophy room, this will have to do.

“I’d like that,” I tell Cyril, just to appease him. We finish our drinks in silence as night falls over Edmonton, and I think about the wars to come – and the peace that hopefully follows.

Hugo Vale, of the Green Vale Gang. Partner of Daniel Green, mentee of Doctor Ned Reform. When I first laid eyes on you, dressed to the nines and looking sharp as a tack, I wrongly assumed that a couple of new interns were being given the grand tour by some low-on-the-totem staff member. When you opened your mouth and let that horrible bile flow, disrespecting Miss Brooks, I figured maybe you weren’t a pencil-pusher after all – at least not one that wants to keep a long-term job. It’s obvious that you come from money, with your attitude.

The only conclusion to draw after hearing the way you spoke was that you intend to carve out a career for yourself on my side of the camera. Now, admittedly, I still didn’t put two and two together until the Green Vale Gang was announced later on in the night and you and your little pal sauntered out onto the stage – but I’ll be damned if you didn’t show some coordination and ability against the beach boys. You are here to wrestle, and you’re no slouches. Give yourselves a pat on the back, and thank your coach – he at least knows the fundamentals.

I should clarify, before you go posting TikToks and dabbing – or whatever it is your generation does – that you shouldn’t mistake this for admiration on my part. We are leagues apart, you and I, in terms of value and legacy. You have twenty-five minutes under your belt, I have twenty-five years. Speaking of belts; the only ones to your name hold up your expensive britches, while I’ve held multiple championships across multiple promotions. I was brought up in this business through the most prestigious system to ever exist – Primetime Central; a collection of promotions that bred the best of the best. It took a second-rate performer from a third-rate company for you to even get your foot in the door.

PRIME is where the cream of the crop flocked to when Primetime Central went extinct. It’s been the flagship for excellence since before you were even born. I remember when spots on the roster were reserved only for deserving legends and the greatest prospects in the game. The more I see of this ReVival era, however, the more apparent it is that standards have slipped over the generations to the point where the door is open for any Tom, Dick or Harry to wander in – just to keep the numbers up. The world is experiencing a societal decline and it seems our hallowed sport is no exception.

I only bring this up to you, specifically, because at least you conduct yourself like a professional. You dress the part, you talk like you have a statement to make and you wrestle accordingly. You remind me of a young Tyler Nelson. I see the potential that Doctor Reform sees, but take it from someone who’s actually made a name for themselves where it matters – you’re going to have to learn some very hard lessons if you ever expect to walk even one mile in his wingtips.

Your first lesson begins at ReVival 66, where I’m going to teach you to know your place and respect your elders. You’re probably giddy at the thought of a Hall-of-Famer, a legend like me, even speaking your name. By rights you should be relegated to wrestling the curtain-jerker every week, and only speaking when the Ozuras and Femme Furies of the world call you out on that goddamned Jabber app. Your good Doctor decided however, against all reasonable doubt, that provoking the tag division – and the two Hall-of-Famers who plan on conquering it – was the best course of action for you to leave a lasting first impression.

The only impression you’ll be leaving is a bloody imprint on my canvas, courtesy of a Hellevator. Ned will convince you that you’re on the right track, that stardom is assured after you involved yourselves in Tony’s match – well I’m here to inform you that all he’s achieved on your behalf is the reward of a sound thrashing. You might think you’re off and running, but you really should learn to crawl before you walk. Thanks to him, the only running you’ll be doing is headlong into the Hess Express – and I don’t stop for anyone.

I’m the monster that the boogeyman checks for under his bed. The hellspawn that banished a Vampir to eternal darkness. The warrior that refused to quit after being thrown from the top of the world by Wade Elliott. The force of nature that neither Violence Jack nor Matt Ward could withstand. I am one of only two true giants in this business who continues to carve a path of destruction where all others crumbled and fell by the wayside. I push through any setback and shrug off all defeat, because I always have been and always will be destined for greatness.

Congratulations, Hugo Vale, your little Gang might as well have set off an atomic bomb when you interfered in Bandit business – because Godzilla is coming, and I’m going to send your know-it-all ass back to the Stone Age.