The Miracle in Montreal (Do You Believe?)

Somewhere in Canada.

In a hotel with no name and no promises, a strong pair of hands finds two notes.

One was originally crumpled up into a ball and clearly missed the wastebasket. Carefully, the hands would unball and straighten up this letter. The handwriting isn't recognizable but the way the words leap off the page make its writer recognizable. This letter is made out of the greatest of care, agony, and somewhere in the midst of it, love. They are words of letting go, giving up, and setting free. The phrases are well known.

I can’t do this. 

I’m sorry.

The other note is more of a ghost on hotel stationary. Its words were carried so strongly on its own page that the remnants became embossed onto its successor. The hands know where this writing comes from and the mind that spawned them. Its story is blunt, clearly trying to show strength even as some of the letters wobble.

I know how to save fabby. 

The man that owns the hands sighs. His fingers tap along the papers before pushing away. Even if he can't fix the issue, he can at least get some answers.

Somewhere else in Canada.

Two things hang from the ceiling of a cold and damp basement: a dim incandescent bulb and the earthy musk of mildew and fear.

There’s a chair sitting in the soft glow of the 40W bulb.

Strapped to that chair, with his gimp mask and dog collar, is fabby. He has been stripped bare of both his thrift store business slacks and the gimp suit.

His nipples are hilariously large. Straight saucer plates.

From the shadows comes Rob William’s voice. Steady, but dire in tone, “I promise you, fabby, I’m doing this as much for you as I am for me. I’m selfless, see.”

ZAPPP

“There’s a book called Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankel. This guy made it through the whole Holocaust convincing his kid they were playing a game because he didn’t want his son to lose hope. Think about that.”

A twelve volt battery slides from the darkness across the floor.

“The whole point of the book was to introduce his form of psychology. He called it logotherapy.” Rob steps into view. He’s completely naked. “See, to date the threadbare beliefs about drivers for human behavior were Freudian or Adler.. Ian.”

As Rob Williams is want to do, he pauses his tirade as the voice of insecurity gets a bit louder in his head.

“ANYWAYS - the point being they thought we fight, fuck, or flee for desire or power. But Frankel used his own horrific experience to highlight what logotherapy suggested as the inner fire. Do you know what it was?”

If fabby does, he’s keeping his secrets.

“Purpose.”

Rob moves back into the darkness to let that word join the 40w glow and mildew and dread hanging in the air.

"You have no reason to be, fabby. Glue has robbed you of it. They’ve turned you into nothing more than a cardboard cutout of a man. To further quote Frankel: If there is meaning in life at all, then there must be meaning in suffering.”

ZAPPPP

“Let’s set the mood,” Rob says.

There’s no answer from the void behind that mask.

Fumbling out of view produces the soft strum of a familiar tune on whining guitar chords.

“Do you like David Bowie, fabby?”

Rob steps into the halo of light emitted from the weak bulb. In his hands are one red and one black jumper cable. He touches them together and they spark.

ZAPPP

“I’m a big Bowie guy. Especially this one. There’s something so fucking sad about this song. It’s not just that he’s alone in space, it's the silence. Adrift in nothingness, no one to talk to. ”

Space Oddity. Bowie serenades them with the conversation between Ground Control and Major Tom as Rob dances obscenely to the slow mellotron in the background.

“You HAVE to feel something, fabby,” Rob screams as he stands in front of his hostage. “Now, I’ll admit. I’m not a huge fan of the breakdown - but really that’s just a commentary on my feeling on breakdowns in general.”

ZAPPPP

“This one isn’t any better or worse than any others. But it gets in the way of what fucking matters: the story. The suffering.”

“Tell my wife I love her very much,” Major Tom calls out.

“She knows,” Ground Control replies.

A single tear rolls down Rob’s cheek.

“You need to suffer, fabby.”

Rob positions the jumper cables over fabby’s nipples.

“Hey mate, what the fuck?”

There are critical moments in the human timeline. Decisions that adjust trajectory in a way you couldn’t imagine - Gavrilo Princip stops in for a sandwich or Lincoln deciding to take in a popular play.

Then there are the ones like Stanislav Petrov sitting in what, by all signs, was his imminent death choosing to wait and see before creating a nuclear holocaust.

Jacky will forever be fabby’s Stanislav Petrov.

Frustration paints Rob’s face red. With a deep sigh he drops his head back and he replies, “What are you doing here, Jacky?”

“Stopping a fucking crime it looks like. And I figured I’d come see why you’re leaving Annie high and dry again. You know, talk things out.”

“Last time we talked things out you beat the shit out of me, bud,” Rob smiles as he turns to Jacky, his manhood swaying in the air between them. “What the fuck do you care, Jacky? This guy is a fucking meme.”

Rob is careful not to touch the metal to fabby’s head as he palms the mute’s skull. “This is no more than livestock. Furniture. His own people said it.”

The Aussie looks at the whimpering fabby. Then he looks back at Rob. “Really now? If he's not human, why is he human shaped?”

“You’re wrong, Jacky. The only way this un mème will ever be anything more is if I give him an anchor and the only way to do that is through suffering. So please, Jacky, step aside.”

Resolved to use his methods, Rob once again goes for fabby’s absurd nipples with the jumper cables. This time Jacky uses more than his words. Trying to avoid Rob’s swinging manhood, Jacky quickly hits him with a leg sweep and follows him to the ground.

Both men get a little taste of the juice as they tussle on the ground.

Ultimately, Jacky manages to wrestle the jumper cables from Rob - likely aided by the fact that Williams is drunk as a boiled owl.

fabby watches silently.

“Hey mate, can I be honest with ya,” Jacky asks as he pushes himself to a stand and kicks the jumper cables away.

Laying on the ground in his nudeness, too dejected to look at Jacky, Rob just nods.

“You’re a bit of a cunt, Rob,” Jacky laughs.

Here in this damp, dark basement the two men share a laugh.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” Rob replies. “I’m just so goddamn sick of these guys, Jacky. I mean come on - look what they’ve done to this guy. He’s fucking furniture. Golf. And now, the tag titles.”

The younger man scoffs. “And you think you're any better by doing this?!” Cue the frantic motioning at everything.

With a sigh of defeat, Rob rolls to his feet. He disappears into the shadows for a moment, sending a nervous chill up Jacky’s spine. Is he coming back with a gun? A knife? Some fucking clothes?

None of these things.

No, Rob comes back with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. He offers a glass to Jacky and then spins off the screw top, tossing it into the darkness.

“Another dead soldier.”

They clink glasses and turn the bottoms up.

“What’s all this philosophy shit, mate?”

“I’ve been reading a lot,” Rob begins and Jacky has to stifle a laugh.

“Fuck you, man, I read. Wasn’t much else to do in prison. I read this book that I just haven’t been able to shake.”

The glasses are topped off again and the men knock them back.

Rob continues, “What’s my fucking purpose man? For a long time it was fear. That was the fire. I started fighting cause I was fucking scared. But now I’m… afraid.”

He didn’t even mean to say it. Now, along with the dread and mildew, it hangs in the air.

“I’m a step behind, Jack. You saw what happened last match. They shut me down. Anna was flying fucking solo.”

He grips the glass tight and tries to talk again, but can’t. Rob fills his glass, takes a deep breath, and forces it out.

“FLAMBERGE. There was a time I might’ve caught him slipping. Could’a given him a run out of pure hate and violence. I ain’t got it any more. And Fontaine is pretty fucking formidable himself. I’ve built a house of cards here - and I’m about to pull it down on me. On Anna. And the most fucked up part is it’s going to be to Glue. They’re the antithesis of purpose and I just ain’t gonna be able to fucking beat ‘em.”

“There’s a meaning to this?” Jack barely resists the urge to motion wildly again. “Could've fooled me. I thought you were just a bit touched.”

“I’ve been a monster, Jacky - because I’ve been made to be one. Yeah I did some bad shit along the way, but I had reason to do it. These Glue fuckers paint Ivan Stanislav with golf clubs, treat fabby like fucking furniture, and the people love them. Fortune, fame, and opportunity is thrown at them left and right. They’re seen as the goddamn good guys.”

Jacky Rex Daniels looks past Rob in thought, contemplating the issue. It wrestles around in his head. He takes a deep breath and blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Well, if that’s how the good guys play, then you're just gonna have to be better than ‘good’.”

It sounds like the dumbest thing anybody could say. Rob even opens his mouth to say so, but there's a look in Jacky's eyes that causes him to pause. A small spark of…chaos.

“Hm. If you can’t beat them, join them, huh?”

Nowhere in particular.

Her phone buzzes.

Anna sighs in exhaustion. She waves it off and turns on the camera.

“Last time, we didn't even say a quarter of the shit we should've said.

We spared you because of love.

We were all in on you because we saw potential in the whole goddamn squad. Farthington's the greatest technician on the roster. He can out wrestle everybody. Hayes? We already know he has what it takes. Joe? Great workhorse, quirky little bitch. Hell, we'll even give Sid a shout. He could only do powerbombs, but they were pretty fucking good powerbombs. And you, FLAMBO. You already know what you're capable of.

In terms of pound-for-pound wrestling talent, we are not afraid to say that the Glueminati is the stable to beat. The truth is? You could've taken over from day one. And who would've stopped you? This roster then and now are filled to the brim with pussies. They don't have the will to fire back.

And yet every time the stage was set perfectly for the Glue to run this bitch…”

A shake of the head. Disappointment. A feeling she's becoming friends with.

“It's not that shocking looking back because your whole damn crew has just crawled out of the moth balls of dormancy for the fourth time. That's your MO. Pop up, get some canned cheers, make a moment or two to gain a bit of momentum, then do absolutely fuck all with that momentum. The first time it happened, it made sense. Once Phil got crippled, what the fuck could you do?

The other times? Y'all don't have good excuses for fumbling the bag.

Cecilworth ran from Max Kael and PRIME for months. Hanlon either got suspended and forgotten or was too busy trying to find every Anna Daniels lookalike to fuck. Sid got sick of the stall tactics, quit wrestling entirely, and is currently trying to get a dead end degree. Joe's actually a better lizard that you, given the way he blends into things.

With each hiatus, that left you holding the banner. You were proud of being Phil's chosen. But as each false start and stall out happened, the banner started eroding in your hands. It took Lindsay Troy personally plunging her hands into each of your assholes and giving you belts to be at the place all you could've been long ago. For a brief moment in time, every single member was a champion. And the fact that it happened like that should leave a bad taste in each of your mouths.

But it doesn't, does it?”

The laugh is bitter.

“After all, does it matter how you get there as long as you get there? Golly gee, what a feel good moment! All these lovely boys holding up their belts as that ancient recorded RAAAAAAAAHHHHHH comes from the speakers. It may fool the live crowd into cheering and everybody else in PRIME to shrug their shoulders. But the one person it didn't fool is us.

Even so, we didn't want to hate any of you.

We loved the Glueminati. We loved what you were and we loved what you could've been. But we absolutely hate what you've become. Then again, that seems to be the reoccurring thing. We care for people, help people, try not to smother them with our love and the bastards just…don’t see it, somehow.”

The pause is long and the weight is heavy. Anna Daniels has spent decades like this, feeling increasingly tired but surviving through second winds. Yet it doesn't feel like there's a second wind coming. She's in a long dark tunnel and each presumed at the light of it so far has been a train running her over. Mentally, she's bloodied and battered.

Inhale.

Exhale.

“In your clan's weakest moment, we helped prop you up again. In our weakest moment, we sent a letter to Farthington Manor. We weren't looking to be a part of Glue, we wanted advice. Do either of you living cumstains realise how desperate we were just to send that shit?! Do you realize how exhausting it has been being the only person who actually gives a fuck about what goes on around here? Do you realize how much it hurts to be seen as NOTHING?!

Because we do! Because that has been our life in this company for three. Fucking. Years. Everybody on this roster laughs when we warn them and they don't understand! We have done everything we could to make sure things have potential, but all of that has been stripped away in part because of you. Our soul is corroded because of dickheads like you! The only thing that even has a chance now are those tag titles. Every other belt has been pissed on! It keeps us up at night knowing that those titles are in your hands because we believed in Glue and all of you failed at what you were here to do!”

And there it is, the anger. All that endless disappointment boiling into the only emotion worth a damn.

“Here's the truth, boys. Your whole crew is a farce and it always was. We gave you more leadership by knitting those scarves than anything Cecilworth ever did. Sid did the right thing by ditching you hoes. Hayes can do better if he can keep clean for two seconds. And Jules, you never cared about Joe until fairly damn recently. Yet we're supposed to believe you're best friends? Now you both wanna pretend you give half a shit about a guy you don't even consider sentient?

Fuck you! Fuck the lizard in your brain, fuck the whimpering French guy in your heart. Fuck your fucking jolf clubs and fuck the Guite. And anybody else gets offended by what we say and how we say it, then fuck you in the past, present, and future and WE HOPE THE SKULLS OF YOUR CHILDREN ARE USED FOR THE PLEASURES OF PAGAN GODS.”

The screaming is straight from the depths of a professional hell. The Muse's eyes are wild, the KNIFE is out, and for a moment, it seems like the poor bastards on the ACE Network might have its first recorded suicide/regeneration.

“JOUR!”

…until somebody manages to capture her in a bear hug.

The anger is still there. But most of it has been replaced with shock. Slowly and quietly, Anna turns off the camera to see two men in the most ridiculous golf clothing known to man. A lot of questions could be asked, but the one that pops out is

“...jour?”

Jacky keeps silent and keeps the hug. After a moment, she looks at the crazy get ups and  laughs for real. She plants a kiss on her husband's lips before glancing at Rob.

“Fuck are you doing here,” Anna asks Williams.

“We took fabby for a round of eighteen. Turns out Jacky is a hell of a golfer .” Rob nods towards the camera. “You leave anything for me?”

Anna nods. “By all means. We've said enough.”

They turn the camera back on. Rob stands in front of it, awkward and tight in the ridiculous get up. The two lovers, embracing in the corner, both give him a reassuring nod and smile.

“Cecil Farthington once stood in a PRIME ring and opined about the fucking mockery of our sport that PRIME has become. How ironic. He went on to lose to Jonathan Christopher-Hall in the Almasy finals. Maybe that’s what this sport is. Maybe that’s what PRIME is. A fucking joke.”

Loosening up a bit, Rob rolls his head around in a circle to take the tension from his neck.

“What else might you call this? Joe Fontaine is suspected dead for half a year or whatever. FLAMBERGE goes on his normal three month excursion. But they walk right into a Tag Team Title shot.”

From inside his baggy golf pants Rob reveals a pack of smokes and slides one out. His demeanor is cool, relaxed. This man is in his element.

Anna nudges Jacky in the ribs with an elbow.

And Jacky just smiled, satisfied with a job well done. All along, it was Jacky Daniels—the lighthouse in the storm—guiding two wrecks home before they sank for good.

“We played golf today, Glue. The real game, not some brain rot joke. We’re going to wrestle you at ReVival 69. Because, you know, we’re wrestlers. Headlocks and shit. And despite your best efforts to make this all into some big joke, your insistence that we turn this goddamn art that we’ve been blessed to do into a farce, we will make you suffer. You might win. You’re both actually really goddamn good in the ring and I’m a two-bit, washed up alcoholic hanging out with an expat Timelord.  But I promise you this much: we are going to make it mean something. Despite your best efforts, this will be special.”

Satisfied, Rob nods his head.

“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.”

Rob walks across the room and grabs hold of fabby’s dog collar. There is the slightest flinch from fabby, but Rob simply undoes the collar.

“Fabby, you deserve to choose your own way.”

Fabby rubs his neck. He’s not free. Not yet. But it’s a start.

Lifting a cowboy boot, Rob snuffs out the cigarette on the heel before looking back at the camera.

“The Tag Team Titles should be iconic - the PINNACLE OF SPORTS in the Tag Team division. Instead, they have been a failure to launch from jump street - with each iteration of a “champion” worse than the one before it. The Sykes never did anything to elevate the titles, the Twins didn’t even want them, and The Glue Bois are the death rattle. If we don’t win this match, you might as well retire the Tag Team Titles because they’ll be just another fucking meme.”

Pause for dramatic effect.

“But if we win - if by some miracle we take the titles from Joe Fontaine and FLAMBERGE? They’ll be a vow. An oath to all the kids out there who just need a chance that no matter the odds, you can find meaning. You can be a fucking miracle.”

He gets dangerously close to the screen.

“A miracle. Not a meme.”

Beat.

“Do you believe in miracles?”

Rob looks over to his tag partner, to Jacky, and then finally to Fabby before looking back into the camera.

“ I do.”

Fade to black.