L'Autre Etienne Lemieux (or, "A mostly serious roleplay that I wrote because there are no freebies in the Almasy, which contains no fewer than two Ace

I. A CHICAO GYM OWNER IS QUESTIONED ABOUT THE NUMBER OF ACELDAMAS IN HIS BUILDING

The call started no differently than so many others Carl Wojtunski had fielded. A local wrestler had wanted to book some time in his gym, The Foundry, and would he be cool with that.

But then things took a turn.

The caller, an older gentleman with a nasally voice who identified himself as Doctor Zeke D. Badguy, Esquire, started asking some rather odd questions.

"Does your building have an elevator to the basement?" he had inquired.

Carl had responded by saying that there was just a set of concrete stairs that led down to the basement, but there was nothing down there except for some extra equipment, the boiler, the furnace, and likely a family of mice. Guests weren't permitted.

There was a pause on the other end of the phone before Zeke asked whether that meant the building was free of "the crazy downstairs basement man," because those were apparently common to wrestling venues in and around the Chicago area.

Needless to say, this caught Carl off-guard, and he denied having a "taser man" - or anyone else for that matter - living in his basement.

At this point, Carl had hoped that the conversation might find its way back on track, and the two parties could continue planning the booking.

Such was not the case.

"What are your opinions on the use of pens for purposes other than writing? And do you keep your pens in a shoulder holster, or are you required by law to have a fireproof pen safe?"

This is where Carl lost his cool, abruptly asking the caller whether he wanted to use the fucking space or not.

After a lengthy spiel about how happy Doctor Zeke was to know that Carl was complying with "all pen and pen-related laws, bylaws, common laws, and all their various clauses, subsections, and paragraphs," a date was set.

Carl hung up the phone, not quite sure what he had just agreed to, but reasonably certain that the caller had thanked him for making sure there would be no "asshole llamas" hiding in the basement.

#

"We're going to keep this simple to start with, okay? I want you to show me what you can do."

Ollie Cade - the man who Zeke insisted on calling Johnny Wombat - stood across the ring from Steve, bouncing from foot to foot to try and loosen up. Ollie, the younger of the two men that Zeke referred to as "Generation H," was definitely the nicer of the two. It was clear right from the rip that Rick was the mean one, and anyone who met Zeke would easily be able to identify him as the strange one, but there was an earnesty about Ollie that Steve found comforting in the chaos.

And chaos was definitely the word for the afternoon.

The group had shown up at his apartment, a humble space that he kept above his restaurant, in what Zeke had described as the Temporary Henchmobile Version 2.0, owing to the fact that this was apparently the second rental car the group had procured. No one would tell him exactly what happened with Version 1.0, only that there had been an incident at the lab.

Steve assumed skunks were involved. When Zeke was involved, it seemed as though the skunks weren't far behind.

That's why it took some convincing before Steve would agree to go with them.

He stood in the opposite corner of the ring, and clearly didn’t seem to think that putting on athletic apparel was necessary given his current state of dress. It was the same thing he wore to work at LeMoo’s Fine Sandwiches. The same thing he wore every time he was called upon by PRIME. Khakis that were pulled up a little too high, a white polo that had been very aggressively tucked in, and a pair of New Balance sneakers.

And while Ollie was a ball of energy ready to bounce, Steve stood stock still.

“Why?” he said. “Shouldn’t we talk about what we’re going to do first if we’re going to rehearse?”

“The fuck is he talking about?” came the voice of “Rock Hard” Rick Hardbody, who stood leaning against a ring post on the outside. Steve winced at the curse.

“You shouldn’t use harsh language,” Steve said.

“Shut the fuck up,” said Rick, and again Steve recoiled.

“Sorry about him,” Ollie said, slowing his movement. “He can be, well, y’know. But I’m kinda curious, too. What do you mean by rehearse?”

“You know, practice our fight,” Steve said. “So it looks more real when we’re doing it.”

Ollie came to a dead stop. Rick rolled his eyes and muttered a series of hushed words that, if Steve had heard them, would have turned his face an unnatural shade of red.

“You… Wait. You don’t think this is real?”

“Oh, heck no. If it were real, none of it would make any sense.”

“Like?”

“Well, when I was doing my research and watching all the PRIME videos I could find, I saw a bunch about a fruit man who had a mannequin and drove a forklift through a casino,” Steve said. “I don’t even know what a Jimmy Bonafide is, but I guess he must have loved dancing, because the fruit man had his own dancers. Was he a Jimmy Bonafide? I don’t know.”

Ollie nodded. “Right, so that guy actually…”

Steve interrupted with the enthusiasm of a sheltered band geek. “And then there’s this one guy who wears sunglasses all the time and has an aircraft carrier. Like the army just gave him an aircraft carrier. How does he have an aircraft carrier?”

“Navy does the boats,” muttered Rick.

Steve could not be dissuaded, and he continued on his rant with all the enthusiasm of a child listing their favorite toys. “There’s a man who is a clone and he was cloned from a… a… a goo pod, and that would make him only a few years old, and everyone says he used to be a cyborg that died and is a clone now.”

Ollie opened his mouth to interject, knowing full well that Steve would cut him off anyway, but this time it was Rick.

“No, no,” he said. “Let him cook.”

“And the goo pod came from a man who has a maze. And there’s a minotaur in the maze. And the maze keeps burning down and coming back. And one time there was a funeral for a car.” Steve pointed at Zeke, who had meandered off away from the group and had been casually poking and prodding and various pieces of the building’s architecture, as if checking for hidden doors. “And I still don’t really know what he does.”

“Alright, alright.” Ollie put his hands up in defeat. “I admit that this sport can get a little weird sometimes, okay. People like to make it a spectacle and put on a show. It’s… how do I explain this…”

“Imagine if all those lonely theater nerds from high school grew up and got muscles,” Rick added. “But instead of beating up everyone else, they just put on spangly costumes and beat the shit out of each other.”

Ollie shot his tag partner a look that was intended to indicate that Rick wasn’t helping. Rick simply winked back at him.

“Let’s put all that aside for a minute,” Ollie said. “For now I just want you to understand the position you’re in.”

Steve looked around. “I’m in a ring in Chicago.”

“No. I mean, yes… Right, technically you’re…”

“He means the tournament,” said Rick.

“Right. That. You’ve got a roster spot in the biggest wrestling company in the world. In all honesty I don’t know how that happened, but it did. Not only that, but you have a spot in the biggest tournament that company runs. The winner gets a chance to become Universal Champion. Do you know what that means?”

“It’s the top prize,” Steve said. “Like winning American Gladiators.”

“Sure,” said Ollie. “And there are thousands of people who would love to have your spot. Hell, Rick and I have been trying to get in for months now.”

“And look at what we get to do instead,” Rick said.

With another glare at his partner, Ollie continued. “The point is that you want to make the most of this, right?”

“Of course!” said Steve

“Great. Then in order to do that, I need to see what you’re capable of. You’re wrestling Luc Labelle. And the last time you two were in a ring together things didn’t go your way.”

“Yeah, he didn’t want to-”

Ollie raised a hand before Steve could continue. “Steve, I need you to work with me here. If we’re going to get anywhere then I need you to at least pretend that everything you’re doing is real. It’s the only way we’re going to get anywhere. Can you do that?”

Steve nodded. “Okie dokie!”

“He is so fucked,” Rick muttered.

“Alright,” Ollie continued. Slowly he started building up momentum, once again bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Then show me what you can do.”

#

Steve marched to the center of the ring with all the grace of a man who has only just regained the use of his limbs after twenty long years in a coma. Ollie met him there and immediately got a hold of Steve in a standard lock-up.

“Okay,” Ollie said. “This is how a lot of matches begin. What do you do from here?”

#

Steve tried to pull himself free, but found that he couldn’t. No matter which way he turned, no matter how hard he jerked in one direction or the other, Ollie would not let go. He grunted. He groaned. For a brief period of time it looked to Ollie like Steve might be actively trying to shit his pants.

Then Ollie felt the rhythmic tapping of Steve’s right hand against his bicep.

#

Ollie let go, his face a mask of dumbstruck surprise.

“Steve,” he said. “What the hell was that?”

“I couldn’t get out of the hold, so I did the only thing I could think of.”

“So you just gave up? To a basic lock-up?”

“It seemed like the right thing to do.”

Ollie took a step back and sighed out what must have been all the air in his body.

“Steve, I hope you know that I’m not trying to be a jerk about this,” he said.

“Oh, I know.”

“But, again, there are people who would literally kill to have your spot in this company and in this tournament. Like I can’t stress that enough. So if you hope to have any chance of beating Luc Labelle…”

Before Ollie could finish, Steve’s eyes went wide. He doubled over in pain, whining a sharp “oooooh” as he tumbled to the ground. Behind him, Rick rose from a kneeling position and clapped his hands together.

“There is no hope,” he said. “Not if we do things your way.”

Ollie eyed his partner incredulously.

“What the hell did you just do?”

“Something I know you wouldn’t. Showed ‘ol Stevie Sandwich here the real way to win his match.”

Steve curled into the fetal position and had begun rolling around on the mat.

“My beans,” he groaned. “I think he broke my beans.”

“Goddammit, Rick,” Ollie hissed. “Are you serious right now?”

Rick shrugged. “Hey, we tried getting cute and doing the obstacle course thing. That didn’t work. The skunk thing? I think we all know what a fuckin’ flop that was. Your approach clearly wasn’t getting anywhere, so I think the solution is obvious. Dude can’t fight his way out of a paper bag, probably because he’s afraid the bag is fake, or that he’ll hurt the bag, or that the bag might sue him or whatever the fuck. So that leaves one option, Cade. One. Dingbat over there gave us a job, and it wasn’t to show this guy how to wrestle. I think that ship’s not only sailed, but lost all its crew in some horrible boating accident.”

“Your metaphor sucks.”

“And so does he.” Rick jabbed a finger at Steve, who was still very much in the process of nursing his tender nethers. “But like I said. Job wasn’t to teach him how to wrestle. It was to show him how to win. You might not like it, but my way? It works, kid. It fuckin’ works. He’s not gonna out-wrestle Labelle. You know that. Maybe you don’t want to admit it, but you know it all the same. So what’s the alternative? Huh?”

Ollie stared daggers through his partner, but said nothing.

“If you got a better plan then let me know. Let us all know. Otherwise it’s Big Ricky Dangerous in charge, and we do things my way.”

Ollie crouched low and put a hand on Steve’s shoulder.

“Hey, you okay?” he said.

“M-muh beans,” Steve groaned. His eyes were pressed tight, and Ollie wasn’t sure if that was sweat, tears, or a combination of both on his face. “He hit me right in the beans.”

“Yeah, he does that sometimes.”

“Get him up on his feet,” Rick barked. “We got work to do. We’ll see how ‘make believe’ it all feels when he’s sore tomorrow.”

#

Everything ached.

It didn’t matter how many matches he wrestled or how many times he was run through the gauntlet during a training session, that part was always the hardest to get used to.

It wasn’t the sort of thing he thought about in the moment, when he was between the ropes staring down someone who wanted to hear his head off. To take his spot. On those nights he wasn’t even the one driving. He was strictly a passenger, trapped in the backseat while the adrenaline took control of the wheel and slammed its foot on the accelerator. Everything between the bells was a blur, the world around him flying past in a kaleidoscope of colors while his nervous system redlined.

Then the match would end.

Then the comedown would hit.

A throb in his right knee. An ache in his lower back. A stiffness in his left shoulder that rose and fell in slow, arcing waves like the crest of a sin curve. The pulse in his foot from where a chair had connected. The dull ache in his groin from where a cheap shot had landed, and the lingering sense of nausea that followed.

It was an effort to pull himself up and out of bed, uncharacteristic given his work ethic, but there was still a day to face, and with it a host of new challenges. The family business had been his to inherit after all, and that meant living up to its name regardless of what obstacles were in the way.

Smells from the restaurant below had already begun to permeate his humble apartment. The kitchen staff had started early, the air perfumed by the subtle, sweet aroma of maple wood smoke. Saturday meant there would be longer lines, more hungry people lining up to be fed, so he made a mental note to enter and exit through the back door until the last sandwich had been served.

Or perhaps he’d just stay in, let the day pass him by.

The last match had taken its toll. Remi Lavoie had done everything in his power to gain the upper hand, even going so far as to bring a chair from the front row into play after the referee had been knocked out. His plan was unsuccessful - a savate kick having knocked the weapon free from Remi’s hand, but the move had come at a cost. And now, as a result, there was the tried and true combination of Advil and frozen vegetables to help with the swelling.

If only that had been the worst of it.

Remi had a reputation for running his mouth throughout the entirety of his match, and he had plenty to say.

“I hope you brought me a sandwich, Etienne. I am going to be so hungry after I’m done kicking your ass.”

“How impressive that you are still here with the rest of us. Surely a big PRIME superstar such as yourself is above such things, no?”

“I always thought you smelled like the skunks, Etienne. Or should I call you Steve LePew?”

Months ago he’d been visited by an older woman. What was her name? Doris? Damaris? She had presented herself as a talent scout. Said that she had been watching all of his matches, and that there would be an opportunity for him to join the biggest promotion in all of pro wrestling. PRIME had a roster spot open, one that was destined to be filled by him - Etienne Lemieux.

He didn’t wait until an official offer was presented before rushing to tell his father. Henri Lemieux had been a grappler himself, as had his father Denis before him. Henri boasted a suplex that had won him the support of the Montreal faithful, and a devastating armbar that was feared across four provinces. Soon he would get to watch his son follow in his footsteps and take the family name to new heights.

“This is a great opportunity,” Henri had said. “Many people would kill for the opportunity you’re getting.”

And then came the clincher, the words that Etienne so rarely heard.

“I’m proud of you, son.”

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and so faded the pride from the face of Henri Lemieux. Along with it went Etienne’s hope.

For months his voice messages and emails had gone unanswered. For months he’d been forced to sit on the sidelines as an untrained hack had taken his spot.

HIS spot.

Steve Lemieux was an affront to the business he had dedicated his life to, a mockery of all of the values his family had instilled upon him. He’d been told that hard work leads to success, but it felt like a lie. All of his work, all of his sacrifice had led to this: watching a man with his name fumble his way through the pinnacle of sport, enduring embarrassment after embarrassment, not only setting fire to his own name but to Etienne’s as well.

He heard the phone ring, but couldn’t bring himself to answer it. Whoever was calling would just have to deal with his voicemail.

And then it rang again, a second call coming through.

A third.

By the second ring of the fourth, Steve relented. He didn’t recognize the number, but he knew the area code.

He sat bolt upright in his chair, dropping the bag of frozen vegetables and scattering peas across the carpet.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Steven. This is Dolores calling.” Ah, so that was her name. “I’m so sorry to blow up your phone like this, but it was critical that I talk to you.”

“Dolores, yes. I’ve been trying to reach you for so long…”

“I know, Steven. I’m terribly sorry about that, too. Things have been a little crazy around here. As you can no doubt imagine, we have a bit of a crisis on our hands. It looks like PRIME has made a dreadful mistake, and I’m trying to make sure that it gets dealt with appropriately.”

A wave of relief hit Etienne like a truck and he collapsed back into his chair. The pain had drained from his body, and it had taken with it the despair, the hopeless, the hurt. Salvation was at hand, just there over the horizon.

“I would love that,” he said, hoping it didn’t appear too desperate. “I have been waiting for this for so long.”

“I know you have, sweetie,” she said. “And, if you’re up for it, I think I know a way you can help.”

“Anything!”

“Good,” she purred. “Good. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”