Inventory

Reason #1 Chandler Tsonda can’t win the big one: the voice in his head says so.

Chandler’s internal monologue has always been two voices. One is self-loathing, impostor syndrome, and doubt. The other, the one that comes out when the cameras are on and the lights are bright, is primping and posing and here’s why you ain’t shit compared to Chandler Tsonda. They’re odd bedfellows, but when they sing in harmony, they create this beautiful man and this beautiful career, so he tunes out or turns up one or the other, based on need.

Since ReV 73, they’ve gone quiet.

Instead, it’s just some sonofabitch with a mean streak.

Reason #2 you can’t win the big one, yeah I’m talking to you, babe: you’re too in your head.

Reason #3: I’m too in your head.

You, healthy, normal, just won the Golden Ticket: fuck yes this rules I’m going to Disneyworld.

Chandler, currently: Your Almasy is over. It ended with your moment in the sun at ReV 73, and good for you, little buddy. Nothing wrong with a semifinal run. But someone in this head of ours needs to be realistic about what comes next. You lose.

The voice never ceases. It makes simple things, like sitting here with Aubrey in the waiting room, feel complicated.

“Oof,” she winces.

“What?”

“Here, feel.”

Aubrey places Chandler’s hand on the crown of her stomach. He gets the instant feedback of thimble-sized drums.

“Whoa.”

Reason #4: you’re getting soft. Googoo gaga, you’ve got a real-life monster coming for your head in ten days.

Chandler tries to ignore the voice and reclaim the sense of wonder he felt moments ago at the connection point between his niece’s foot and his hand.

“Pretty trippy,” Aubrey says, readjusting her weight in the chair.  “You know she started to get a sleep cycle this week? Makes sense because she is well-rested and doing Bruce Lee stuff.”

“You know who else in the family famously has incredible lower body strength,” Chandler says, waggling his eyebrows. If you want, there’s probably Baby Einstein for future wrestlers. Nothing says you can’t start grinding tape and studying the craft as a third trimester embryo.”

“With all due respect—

“This is going to be hurtful.”

“—my daughter is going to be a world leader, so we’re keeping her away from the painkiller-and-concussion factory.”

“Cabbage,” Chandler says, addressing Aubrey’s stomach, “I’m sorry your mother is so closed-minded. Me, personally, I think women can have it all. They can be dazzling in-ring performers and presidential. But I guess my feminism is a little more inclusive than my cousin’s.”

Aubrey doesn’t budge.

“We’re going to keep her away from all that. Aren’t we, Chan?” She puts a little Italian ragu on the words for emphasis.

“You have my word. No encouragement. But Cabbage, if you happen to find yourself in my study, and happen to pull up the discs on the backshelf, and happen to hit play on—

“Shit.”

“Ok, now that was hurtful.”

“No, I’m not—

An OBGYN office is cultivated to be neutral, calm, and supportive. So a sudden peal of noise, like what comes next, causes several people to jump.

“I knew it! What the fuck, Aubrey?”

Tall, thin, white with a sandy beard, he’s anonymous to Chandler, but clearly no stranger.

There is a tone and register that, when a man uses it, he speaks directly out of a wound. It’s coarse, and it means terror, grief, and blood. This is the tone in the tall man’s voice, and he’s four steps from them when Chandler stands up to a great blur of noise, all at once.

“Why are you making me chase you like some kind of criminal?”

“Sir, you need to check in with the desk.”

“Tim, you need to leave.”

“Be calm,” Chandler says, low and slow. He calls to his cousin, still seated behind him. “Aubrey, who’s our guest? Can you please tell hi—

“I don’t know who you are, but I need to speak with Aubrey privately.”

“No.”

The man looks like he’s been slapped. Aubrey indirectly answers Chandler’s previous question.

“Tim, how did you find me? I asked you not to contact me anymore.”

To Chandler, the question of how is for later. The question is: how to keep Aubrey safe.

Tim tries again.

“This is a private matter. If I can speak with—

“You can’t,” Chandler says. “It’s very important you understand that you can’t speak with Aubrey. Everything else about what happens next is your decision, Tim.”

Tim huffs a nasty laugh. Tim is like so many men. Plan A is brash confidence, and plan B is being aggrieved when the world doesn’t open its doors in response to Plan A.

“Aubrey, this isn’t what we agreed to.”

“I’m not doing this with you,” she says.

The receptionist asks for everyone to lower their voices. Someone says something about calling the cops.

“You should go back to your car,” Chandler says. “Get in. Turn the key. Drive back to your house. You’ve made some bad choices coming here. Not too late to get out of this without a problem.”

“You should step aside.”

Tim closes the gap between them. Chandler puts a flexed hand up like a stop sign. Two handlengths separate them now.

“Look around this room, Tim. There are some scared people in here because of you.” Chandler speaks slowly, calmly. “If you leave now, this is a mistake. Mistakes, we can fix. You take another step towards my cousin, and we’re past all that. We’re into things that are harder to fix.”

“Oh yeah, tough guy?”

“I would prefer not to hurt you. Merely a preference, though.”

Reason #5: you don’t wanna hurt this prick? I said you were getting soft, but I take it back. You ARE soft.

“Go,” Aubrey says.

The receptionist makes a loud show of being on the phone with, presumably, 911.

Tim sizes up Chandler. He probably notices his height and reach advantage, maybe thinks that the adrenaline of the moment favors him.

“This isn’t over,” Tim snarls. “You can’t take my daughter from me.”

Tim slams the door as he goes. A great sigh of relief goes up across the waiting room. Everyone else present has at least pretended to go back to whatever they were doing.

For the first time since the noisy arrival, Chandler turns back to Aubrey.

“What the hell was that?”

“I need a minute.”

“That is the Princeton finance quant mister perfect sperm donor you were crowing about?”

“I said I need a minute.”

“We’ll get you a private security guy. I know plenty of people.”

“Sit down. You’re making a scene.” She’s curt, and Chandler should know that it’s a sure sign she’s roiling underneath the surface.

“Yeah, that would be awful if somebody came in and made a scene.”

“You can go too if you’re gonna keep being a prick.”

“I’m not—

“I’m fine, by the way, Chan. Thanks a lot. Glad you won your dick measuring contest. You’re everyone’s hero, congrats. You think I might be a little shook up being harassed? Having this fucking guy stalk and embarass me? Read the room, dude.”

The shame is hot and fast. Chandler scrambles.

“Sorry. I’ll handle the security thing.”

“Sometimes, I don’t want solutions, Chandler,” she sighs. “You can support someone without fixing their problems for them.”

“You’re right.”

“I know.”

The silence between them settles, long and tense.

“What did he mean, ‘not what we agreed to?’ I thought you and Cabbage would never have to hear from the guy.”

Aubrey shakes her head. “That was the deal. He must have changed his mind. He’s been texting me weird stuff, demanding that I meet him.”

“You should’ve told me.” Chandler opens his palms towards her. “Not offering a solution. I want to help. I could’ve helped.”

“I wanted to handle it myself.”

“You’re going to need help if you’re going to make my niece into a world leader. I think you might need it even if all she’s ever going to become is a super slick fucking cool jock wrestling star phenom. If she chooses that, I mean.” He smiles at her, trying to thaw the ice. “You can ask me for help.”

“I know.” She doesn’t quite smile, but something untightens in the corner of her cheeks. “Now please be quiet, my daughter needs her rest before her big appointment.”

Chandler complies.

/~/~/~/~/

Reason #6: you messy bitch, you’re DISTRACTED

“Sorry, I was distracted.”

“Extend your arm and clench your fist, please.”

The phlebotomist pierces Chandler’s skin and draws blood. When it’s done, Chandler steps out into the foyer and sees Kai Carter leafing through a brochure for the private geneticist’s practice they’re using.

“Learn anything good?”

“Did you know the entire human genome could be stored inside three gigabytes of data?”

“Yeah, it’s all I heard about in the locker room this week.”

Kai looks up. “That’s a joke.”

“Tough crowd,” Chandler says. In their one prior meeting, and a few phone calls, he is beginning to get a sense for Kai’s Chardonnay-dry sense of humor. It’s got its charms.

“If you said ‘I bet yours could be stored in three megabytes, now that would be a funny putdown.”

“I’m cackling on the inside. Did they tell you to wait here ten minutes to reduce the chance of fainting?”

“Yes. I’m glad we opted for the blood tests. Studies show that using both buccal swaps and blood testing is 74% less likely to produce false positives. Seat?” Kai offers the chair next to him.

“I haven’t had good luck with medical offices recently. I saw some benches outside. Wanna wait out there?”

“You aren’t worried about….publicity?”

Kai seems to clock without discussion that discretion is important to Chandler, that a “TSONDA TSTUNNER: TSECRET TSON?!” headline benefits neither of them.

“Nah, let’s get some sun.”

They head outside.

After Chandler and Kai agreed to a paternity test, Kai’s employer let him work out of the LA office. The Model Citizen doubts that it’s prudent for Kai, but better than flying coast-to-coast for every step of this strange process.

“You ok away from home for this long?” Chandler asks once they’re seated.

“My routines are portable,” Kai answers, in his very matter-of-fact way.

“What about friends? Pets? Houseplants?”

“I miss my cats. But I weighed it out and decided the identity of my father is worth some inconvenience.”

Chandler nods. It was his suggestion that they go do the blood draw together as a bonding experience. Should Chandler be making up for lost time and building a relationship, or keeping Kai at arm’s length to protect both of their peace? He tries to split the difference.

Reason #7: deadbeat dads don’t prosper, it’s 2025

Reason #8: or maybe Kai’s not yours? you’re getting scammed by Rain Man and you expect to outwit Alexei? hahahaha

“Cats?” Chandler asks, drowning out the voice.

“Two. They’re a bonded pair, Buzz Aldrin and Sally Ride.”

“Naturally.”

“After the astronauts.”

“I know who…” Chandler catches himself about to snide out, and laughs. “You don’t think I’m very smart, do you?”

Reason #9: the kid’s onto something there, dummy

Kai takes a moment and replies politely.

“I’m sure you have a lot of great qualities. For example, you probably know much more about missile dropkicks and moonsaults than me.”

Chandler cocks his head quizzically.

“I—

“Let me guess, looked it up.”

Kai smiles.

“ChatGPT is good at wrestling terminology.”

“Did it tell you you’re talking to the guy with the most famous moonsault in the world?”

“I’ll have to try a different query.”

Chandler looks at his watch. Ten minutes has passed. They can go.

“I’m glad we did this,” he says. “No matter what happens. Thanks for riding the roller coaster with me.”

“You’re welcome. It’s been very enlightening.”

“Work is…intense right now,” Chandler says. “A lot of pressure. This is important too, but it feels like a nice break from that pressure, if that makes sense.”

“Why do you feel pressure?”

Reason #10: you’ve already lost this match once, and with higher stakes. Pressure busts pipes, and you need a plumber. Other than Jiles tripping and landing on his own sword, name the last big stage match you didn’t choke.

Stop me when I get to a win. Ivan, Kael, Snow, Hanlon, Avalon, Avalon again. When you face the who’s who of PRIME, you’re Charlie Brown and they’re the football. The Tsonda Revival era, in short: you win when you’re supposed to,  you gag anytime you’re not the prohibitive favorite. And boyo, you ain’t no favorite against a Siberian ursine. 

“Single elimination tournament. Big prize. It’s kinda our March Madness.”

“Ah, brackets,” Kai says. “I find those very soothing. I constructed seventeen last year.”

“Of course you did.”

“It might provide you some relief that single-elimination tournaments mitigate the advantage of a favorite, and often skew into more random outcomes because of the small sample size and intense environment.”

“Kai, your sunny optimism is appreciated.”

Reason #11: don’t let this twerp tell you otherwise, you’re not 1988 Villanova or 2022 St. Peter’s. You’re not even the same guy you were before the Bear broke you at UltraViolence two months ago. Since then, run the tape: win over Green (disastrous, you looked ready to retire) win over Sage (fluke), win over Jiles (technicality). Weak. Ass. Run.

Reason #12: Did I mention Stanislav beat you with his cronies locked outside of WARCHAMBER? It’s Chan against an army. They got a whole ass starting five, and you got…crickets.

The voice is getting louder. Chandler squints and tries to reclaim control.

“Are you alright?” Kai asks.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

Reason #13: you’re a liar, you’re cracking.

“I’m good,” he repeats. “Wanna grab lunch?”

/~/~/~/~/

Days go by slowly. Chandler prepares.

Reason #14: you see all that Vegas money coming in on the Bear? Stat-based models loooove Ivan. Wanna put a small bet on him so it’s not a total wash when he, ahem, rinses you?

The voice keeps Chandler up.

Reason #15: not sleeping much, huh? Too busy listening to me. I see the bags under your eyes. “Trying to keep it together” is an ugly shade on you, Chan.

Paternity test results won’t come back for two weeks. Only two days until ReV 74. He should go straight to Columbus.

He drives to LA.

“Hey, Jaz.”

Chandler steps into the spacious surroundings of Athletic Excellence & Performance. He gave Jasmine all of five minutes heads up of his arrival. She’s still dripping sweat when she jogs up to meet him.

“What are you doing here?” she asks. They hug.

“Would you believe me if I said ‘better flights to ReV 74 out of LAX?”

“Nope.”

“Smart girl.”

He is dodging the question. Recently, she is spellbound by AEP’s founder. This is not the generalized worry for one’s kid—will she be alright? will she find the love she deserves? This is the acute fear that Jasmine’s greatest power, her wrought iron belief in herself, will be weaponized by someone willing to indulge her impossible fantasy as long as it pays well.

“How’s the work?”

“It’s super good. Great, honestly. How’s the freakin’ Golden Ticket?!”

“You wanna see it?”

“You knowwwwwww.”

From his bag, Chandler produces the relic. Jasmine fans herself.

Reason #16: you’re toting this thing around like you know it’s the only trophy you’re getting from the Almasy. 

“So dope,” she says.

“It’s a little dope.”

“Speaking of: I saw Jaime’s first title defense.” She beams. “Little brother’s all grown up. The promoter over there said I should join up after my surgery and rehab. He thinks the whole ‘two wrestlers who trained together’’ would be incredible theater for a title match if Jaime can hold onto the belt.”

“One thing at a time, right?”

And now she’s dodging the question.

“You wanna meet Dr. Anfield?”

Chandler would rather tapdance across a punji pit.

“Only passing through. You got time for coffee?”

“It’s no biggie,” she says, and leads Chandler to what is clearly the head office. “I told him you were coming.” She knocks on the door and out comes trouble.

Reason #17: picking fights with Instagram doctors now? Maybe he can fix what’s left of your spine after the Bear is done with you.

“Aha, Mr. Golden Ticket himself. Chandler Tsonda, very nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Trevor Anfield.” The head of AEP is bulkier in person, looking like a few cycles too many of testosterone and dianabol.

Chandler reluctantly shakes hands.

“Pleasure,” Chandler lies.

“I was just gonna share the good news,” Jasmine says, looking expectantly at Dr. Anfield. Chandler waits.

“Jasmine is an excellent candidate for a surgical intervention with our partners at Sinai Wilshire. That’s the team that did Matt Ward’s recent neck surgery.”

A lie, or something that smells eerily like one.

Reason #18: you don’t trust anyone. Everybody else in the semis has a faction behind them. Who’s got your six? Two Mouseketeers not on the roster, and Nate Colton when he’s not chin deep in girl trouble?

“Hadn’t heard about that,” Chandler says, processing. Chandler doesn’t keep in touch with Tchu, but as ever with Anfield, something feels off.

“And I’m scheduled!” Jasmine lights up.

“Scheduled?” Chandler can’t hide the surprise in his voice. He eyes Anfield skeptically as he muddles through the nicest way possible to express: what the fuck. “I thought we were at ‘good candidate for surgery, take a few months of rehabbing and scans to confirm the candidacy’ stage. Help me out here.”

“Jasmine’s an incredible athlete, and a remarkable healer,” the doctor says.

“I know she’s an incredible athlete,” Chandler chuckles, holding in curses. “You’re describing Wolverine.”

“Isn’t this great news?!”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say ‘that’s super wavy, Jaz you’re an icon.”

“I…can’t wait to hear more. You wanna grab your stuff? Coffee on me, but I do have to get to it, my flight leaves at 3.”

“Bet, be right back.”

Jasmine scoots down the hallway, and Chandler pivots to the good doctor.

“Really hitting the gas here with her treatment, huh?”

“We’re lucky to work with many pro athletes at AEP, but I’ve never met someone with the mixture of tenacity and drive as Jasmine.”

“Oh?”

Dr. Anfield grins widely.

“We’re in fourteen sports. Motocross, rodeo, beach volleyball, cycling, you name it.”

“And Matt Ward,” Chandler says, matching Anfield’s poison grin.

“I should clarify: Mr. Ward’s procedure was with the surgery team at Sinai but—

“But you’re happy to use his name to sell Jasmine on a Hail Mary surgery that’s got her hopes up?”

“Jasmine’s optimism makes us very high on her prospe—

“Fuck off.”

Anfield doesn’t blanch.. He tents his fingers.

“I’m not sure whether to be offended or honored that a major star came to my facility just to lob baseless accusations at me. What is it you think I’m doing, Mr. Tsonda? Offering hope to athletes who were told by uncreative dinosaurs not to pursue their dreams anymore? Guilty as charged.”

Chandler radiates disdain through his bared, smiling teeth. He jabs two fingers towards Anfield.

“I see you.”

“You’re an important part of Jasmine’s life. I’d love to sit down in the future and address whatever issues you have with our care plan. Let’s set a time to talk when you’re not so upset.”

It’s a trial to resist the urge to knock a few veneers out of Anfield’s mouth.

Reason #19: you’re becoming hysterical. Is there any proof he’s bad news, other than your Spidey sense which, oh yeah, didn’t stop the Red Army from putting Jasmine in the hospital the first time? You are LOSING IT which, funny, losing is what you’re doing in two days against Stanislav. 

Before things heat up any further, Jasmine returns.

“Ready to go?”

“Yep,” Chandler says, fists clenched white.

“You wanna join?”

“I shouldn’t,” Dr. Anfield replies. “I’ll let you two talk.”

As they leave, Chandler feels Anfield’s gaze, hot on the back of his head. This isn’t over.

/~/~/~/~/

Reason #20: you can’t protect any of them, can you? Already, you let Jasmine get destroyed by Ruslan and Stanislav. Now she’s being preyed upon by the snake oil doctor. Aubrey won’t even tell you when she’s being stalked. Your bastard—sorry, potential bastard—has no idea how his life’s about to turn upside down when science confirms that YES, Maury, Chandler IS the baby’s daddy! And you. Can’t. Keep. Them. Safe.

Reason #21: you can’t protect yourself. Even if you could shield them, there’s going to be nothing left of you. You’re afraid that Ivan isn’t your blood rival at all. After all, rivalries have wins and losses. All you’ve got to show against him is two humiliating losses, both of which could’ve ended your career. One more whiff, and it might be time to say: the Viper will never be match for the Bear. 

Reason #22: no response, huh? You’re cooked.

Chandler knows there is nothing to say to quiet the voice. There is only one thing to do. One man to beat. One way forward.

He recites the list again, starting with reason #1.