Millstone

The phone rings.

You look at it.

You can't pronounce the name of the caller.

You say, “Fugoff,” and take a bite of a french fry and ignore the call.

But then the phone rings again.

And you roll your eyes because you bet its the same motherfugger with the long ace name that you can't pronounce. Then you look at it, and surprise, surprise — it's the same motherfugger with the long ace name that you can't pronounce.

So you answer it.

“What the hell you want?” You ask plainly, skipping the intro.

“Am I speaking with Fred Dick?” He asks you.

This puts you in quite the psychological pickle. Because you are definitely Fred Dick (congratulations ya stupid son of a bench), but this guy with the long ace name sounds like an acehoe. Prolly has some sorta problem with ol' Fred. Way you figure it? You'd rather not deal with that drama — not today, at least, not while you were having a nice chicken tender meal at the Dairy Queen with a large ace Reece's cup blizzard with your name all over it. Lawd yes. But then again? What if you lie to him, and then he figures out you are actually Fred Dick? Then you lose all your street cred. That'd be real fugging bad as far as you're concerned, because deep in your heart of hearts? Street cred matters more to you than your life. And if you had any kids you actually claimed? More than theirs too. Life was really about street cred. If you didn't have any? Well, the streets would fuck you. You heard that as a child, and you swore to yourself right then and there that you'd never let the streets fuck you. It sounded terrifying then, and it sounds terrifying now. Concrete? In your holes? No thanks. That's a big ‘no thank you’ right there. You aren't about that. No one is.

So you decide to tell him who you are.

“Yeah,” you say. “I'm Fred Dick.”

The voice on the other end sounds very pleased when he says, “Ah, so lovely to speak with you, Fred Dick. It has been a long time. Have you forgotten the sound of my voice? It's me. The Consequences of your Actions.”

You gulp.

“Nah,” you say, trying to sound cool. “I remember you. What's up, big dawg?”

This man, the Consequences of your Actions, has been bullying you your entire fucking life.

“I was hoping we could meet up,” he says.

“When?” You reply, hiding the tremor in your voice.

“ReVival 75.”

You hang up. Your vision gets blurry and your breath gets really short. There's a faint ringing in your ears that seems to drown out the noise until all there is is you, and the ring, and the sudden sense of foreboding that is beginning to swallow the entire world and strip it of its color and its grandeur until you're the only fucking thing that's real anymore. And that's when you realize.

You aren't even in a Dairy Queen.

This is a DMT trip you began taking in the Boiler Room as soon as you regained consciousness and escaped the clutches of the medical personnel.

Son of a bench, that DMT is tricky as hell.

Well, best ride this shid out the best you can, you figure.

Hell, what's the worst that can happen?

And that's when you notice him.

He's staring at you from the roof of the Whataburger across the street.

Sebastian Gold.

And he's wearing your title.

He's wearing your Intense Title.

And he's holding your severed head up in the air.

Ah, God damn it. Now he's fucking your severed head.

“Hey!” You scream. “Stop fucking my severed head out there!!! Quit it!!! And take off my belt!!!”

“You shut your fucking mouth, this is a Dairy Queen!” Some voice says.

“No tha fug it's not,” You reply. “This is a fake ace Dairy Queen and that guy out there on that fake ace Whataburger is fucking my severed head and wearing my championship belt.”

“Well what are you going to do about it?” The voice says.

You think for a moment.

But everything begins to melt away, even you.

“Nothing…”

You realize.

“I deserve it.”

“Running away will never make you free.” -Kenny Loggins When Toddrick and Miguel saw the beating that Sebastian Gold was giving Daddy Sagna, they didn't understand why exactly, but they were compelled to run away rather than help Daddy Sagna.

Toddrick could not run, however, as he had been turned into a Frankenstein of metal bars and leather straps. So Miguel actually carried him away from Daddy Sagna's brutalization.

They held hands and cried and thought for a while about what to do.

If they were ever going to run away, this was the time.

They had fucked over Ivan Stanislav in a very severe way that he would never forgive. They had just watched the man who brainwashed them, and bragged about brainwashing them to their faces, get the shit beat out of him with a tire iron by someone they believed was their brother.

The heat was on, as they say.

And not only was it suddenly on, it was just as suddenly WHITE HOT.

The Lasagna Boys were not athletes. They were not wrestlers. They were average, brainwashed men, who desired neither to hurt or be hurt, but rather, to humbly serve the entity whose absolute will they were mere physical expressions of — and yet, they were being treated like athletes. They were being treated like wrestlers. Getting struck and beaten like wrestlers, usually for something they were ordered to do, or that they failed to do correctly, and usually by Daddy Sagna, Uncle Toner, or one of Daddy Sagna's infinite, yet paradoxically growing list of enemies.

If Ivan Stanislav ever really got his hands on them… Fuck. There isn't a single other word for it. Just… Fuck.

Every fiber of what remained of their rational minds told them to run. To get as far the fuck away from Daddy Sagna as they could. To go to fucking… who fucking knows, Alaska or something. Become crab fishermen. Maybe get on that show the Most Dangerous Catch. Wouldn't that be cool?

But the truth was, there really were times that Daddy Sagna had been kind to them. They talked about adopting more Lasagna Boys over time and what that would look like, and maybe establishing some sort of union and collective bargaining agreement between the Lasagna Boys and Daddy Sagna. Though these were only preliminary discussions, they showed a sort of willingness on Daddy Sagna's part to meet them halfway sometimes.

And for Sebagna, to not just… turn on Daddy Sagna, but to abandon the two of them? Did he think he was better than them or something? Obviously, he was but… he never let them think that. Not while he was around.

To see him do what he did, it…

It stung.

It… it confused them and hurt them and made them scared, and…

Well… anyway…

They felt the pain of his betrayal as well.

And so after several hours of sitting together and deliberating, long after the crowds cleared out, and the night had long turned to day, the remaining two Lasagna Boys, the ORIGINAL two Lasagna Boys, decided to go down to the Boiler Room and be with Daddy Sagna.

But when they finally made it down there, they found a crudely written sign taped to the door, written on notebook paper in a faint pencil. Your fired. Sory. -FRED

“Sooner or later, everyone sits down to a banquet of consequences.” -Robert Louis Stevenson Hello.

Long time no chat. 

Reality here. 

Have you enjoyed watching Fred have his little run?

It was enjoyable for me, too.

He made it so far in the Almasy.

Just for it to be snatched away.

He made it so far with his homebrewed MK-Ultra program.

Just for it to fall apart.

Look at him now, getting ready to hang himself in the Boiler Room.

Yeah, that DMT did a number on his head. He's fashioning his jersey into a noose.

I almost had him after the Almasy final. If Toddrick's stupid ass hadn't jumped off the roof and fallen feet first like a pencil, Fred would've certainly jumped that night.

But this time is different.

He's not just sad for himself this time.

It's weird. The feeling is deeper and more complex. 

Huh.

WHATEVER THOOOOOUGH!

Personally, I love to see him going out this way.

Do you know he wrote a letter to Sebastian Gold? He actually apologized.

LOL!!!

I took his STRONK. I took his Almasy. I took his Sebagna.

And now? Now, I take his life.

In the Boiler Room. The very place he believes I have no power.

Bwahahahahaha!!! BWAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAA!!!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAA!!!! HAAAAAAAAAA!!!! 

Sweet victory is mine at last.

Wait… Wait… what the fuck?

WHAT THE FUCK???

Fred Dick wraps his Intense Championship around his waist. One last time, he figures. He checks the jersey. He doubts it will hold his weight, but he only needs it to work for a little while.

Suddenly, the Boiler Room door is kicked hard as fuck.

BAM.

Again.

BAM.

Again.

BAM.

“God damn it!” Fred screams. “Who the fug is kickin' at my door!?!”

“It's us!” Miguel says on the other side of the door. “Open up!”

“I fired you, can't you read!?” Fred screams. “I brainwarshed y'all. Y'all can go filth your brains back up and forget all about me, neow! Go on!”

“Daddy Sagna… FRED…” Miguel pleads. “Don't do it.”

Fred's bottom lip trembles.

“Don't do what?” He asks.

A pregnant pause. Then Miguel says,

“Don't kill yourself.”

Fred catches himself from having a full emotional breakdown. He exhales, slowly, then swings the door open. “How'd you know I was gonna kill myself?”

“What are you even talking about?” Miguel says, barging in. “You almost did after ReVival 74. That's why Toddrick is a human can-opener now.”

“Don't do it Daddy Sagna,” Toddrick says, stiff-legging into the Boiler Room.

Fred looks at them with tears in his eyes.

“But don't I deserve to die?”

“Yes,” they both say emphatically. “You're one of the worst people who ever lived. The fact that you have managed to live as long as you have, and not just live, but THRIVE, in a legitimate industry and become one of its stars, is so utterly absurd that it truly proves nothing matters. But even though you're an evil piece of shit and existence is absurd — you shouldn't kill yourself, Daddy Sagna.”

“Why the fug not?” Fred asks.

“Because that would only add to the absurdity of your existence,” Miguel says. “If you want to die, die defending that motherfucking belt around your waist.”

Fred thinks about it for a moment. Then he looks at his Lasagna Boys, nods gently, and wipes the wet from his eyes.

“I think it's all startin’ to get to me a lil bit, nawmean? All the evil I've been doin’. All the wrongin’ and the sinnin’ and the hurtin’ I've been doin’. Feels like a damn… millstone around the neck of my soul… I must sound insane… Does that even make sense?”

Toddrick tries to nod, but his neck is incapable of moving independently from his waist due to the metal contraption he finds himself in, so he bows.

“I think that just means you're a human after all, Fred.”

Fred laughs through grit teeth that hold back sobs.

Miguel puts his arm around Fred's shoulder.

“Why don't you spend the rest of this week and next with the people that really matter to you?” Miguel suggests. “And if Sebagna — err, Sebastian, kills you, at least you spent time with the people that matter most.”

Fred nods. That makes sense.

“What if he doesn't kill me?”

Miguel pats Fred's shoulder. “Then you'll walk out of the Kaseva Center with your Intense Championship and your two Lasagna Boys after enjoying one of the nicest weeks of your life.”

Fred thinks for a moment. Then he looks at Miguel and Toddrick.

“I want y'all to know, y'all are my favorite Lasagna Boys.”

They smile. Even though they are the only Lasagna Boys.

They smile.

“You are going to break your promise. I understand. And I hold my hands over the ears of my heart, so that I will not hate you.” -Catherynne M. Valente You were my proudest creation, Sebagna.

I loved you the most.

Satan used to be an angel. He was God's most proudest creation, so they say.

God loved him the most.

So what have we done, Sebagna…

Or should I say “Sebastian” now?...

If not just re-told one of the oldest stories known to man? The story of the first betrayal.

The story of an angel fallen from Heaven, to corrupt everything else God loved.

Neow, I admit.

I have some wrong in this here situation.

I abducted ya ace ‘gainst your will. Brainwarshed ya ace ‘gainst your will. Putcha ace in a kennel for many hours of every day ‘gainst ya will. Drugged ya ‘gainst ya will. Made ya eat dog food ‘gainst ya will.

And I admit that I was wrong for that. Hell, it was evil of me. Part of me wants to die for all the bad shid I've done...

And I admit, that unlike the Lawd Almighty GAWD, I deserved your betrayal.

You deserve my Intense Title.

You deserve to fuck my severed head while you wear my Intense Title.

But you gotta understand, Bass…

I can't let you do it, bud.

I can't let you have anymore of my shid.

I gave you my heart. I gave you my trust. I gave you my time and my effort and my attention. I gave you my drugs – MY DRUGS – and all you did was take a big ol' liquid hot shid all over everything I did for you.

So I can't give you the only thing I never gave you.

But I figure, I can give you the next best thang, Bass. I can give you the next best thang.

I figure, you can kill me.

You want revenge, right? You want my Intense Championship, right?

Then you're going to have to fucking kill me. You're going to have to murder me on live mothafuggin’ television.

You damn near did it once at Ascension, RUININ’ one of the smartest and best wins of my whole career with a god damned tire iron.

So come on and finish the job, mothafugger!

But just know, better wrestlers than you have tried.

Paxton Ray.

Clay Byrd.

RIA.

All three hated my guts. All three wanted to kill me.

I'm still here.

I'm still fuggin' here!!

Don't you get it, Bass???

Don't you fuggin’ GET it, boy???

Reality itself wants me dead.

I'm still here!

This isn't the fuggin’ Almasy, boy.

I ain't the fuggin’ longshot here.

You is.

I'm the man with the belt. I'm the man who is perfect for this division. This division ain't for high flying pretty boys that betray their masters and wanna do springboard dropkick with steel chairs.

This division is for motherfuggin’ hogs that like to get muddy. This division is for motherfuggers who will grind their own face in barbed wire. This division is for motherfuggers who have nearly bled to death in the ring and will nearly bleed to death again in there.

You ain't cut out for this motherfuggin’ division, Bass.

Meanwhile, I'm cut from the very fuggin’ cloth this division is fashioned out of.

See, I know you're too smart to think of me as some kind of joke.

But what you don't understand, what none of yuns have ever grasped, is that this — all this, all of that which is ruled by the tyranny of Reality IS a joke — even me.

See, you almost see the whole picture. Your actin' career bein' what it was, you'd think you'd know by now.

But for whatever reason, you ain't quite figured it the FUG out.

But when I wrap your god damn treacherous throat in barbed wire and squeeze it, when I break your fuggin’ knee caps with a hammer, when I cover your body with thumb tacks and jump on you, when I shove my thumbs into yo eyes because you a lil BENCH and you HURT MY MOTHAFUGGIN’ FEELINS and you TRIED TO TAKE MY MOTHAFUGGIN’ BELT…

I think you'll start having a pretty good fuggin’ idea of the truth.

The entire truth, from acehoe to fo'head.

Truth is, Bass, you deserve this belt. And after everything I've put you through, the fair thing would be for you to win it.

But the entire truth? From acehoe to fo'head?

Reality ain't fair, motherfugger.

Trust me.

I know.

STRONK TWO wasn't expected until October, and thus far, Randi Dick was doing everything… right?

She wasn't smoking. Wasn't drinking. Wasn't using. Wasn't sleeping with strange men who might be diseased. She was taking her prenatal vitamins. She was eating healthy. She was attending pregnancy classes and joining Facebook groups for pregnant single women and actually…

Trying? For once?

And it made her feel incredibly guilty.

She'd had four children. The state had taken all four and she hadn't put up a much of a fight. In all actuality, she hadn't given a shit. She was really dumb and really high and really drunk and really heartless.

But that was no excuse.

Ever since that tornado, she'd thought differently about a lot of things.

Motherhood. Second chances.

She started going to AA meetings. She had just got her six month chip last month.

She had to prove to the state she could raise STRONK TWO, which was going to be hard without an income. She was terrified that the state, knowing her well at this point, would be waiting for her to deliver STRONK TWO, just to swoop in and take him.

It was those thoughts that drove her to desperately desire cigarettes while she drove her old car from her OBGYN's office to her little old RV she was living out of.

The Tornado had taken her trailer. The RV was meant to be a temporary provision but was starting to look permanent.

The state wouldn't love that.

When she pulled up to the RV lot and saw the Cadillac Escalade sitting outside of her RV, her first thought was that it was the state, here to remove her baby before she even gave birth. The paranoid feeling quickly turned to confusion when she saw the license plate indicated it was a regular, civilian vehicle.

Was this an intruder or a former dealer of hers she owed money?

She reached in her glove compartment and grabbed her gun. A little revolver. With trembling hands she got out of the car and approached her door.

When she walked in, she nearly shot.

If this had occurred in some other time, she would've shot, and the bullet would've hit him somewhere hilarious and we'd all have a big laugh.

But she didn't shoot.

“Jesus Christ, Fred!” Randi shouted, placing the gun at her hip. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Fred didn't say anything. He just looked up at her from his seat on her fold out couch with a quivering bottom lip and eyes full of regret.

“Are you okay, sugar?” She asked, setting tbe gun on the end table and sitting down beside him. She loved him. She hated his fucking guts, but God damn it, she loved him so deeply.

“No,” he said. “I'm suicidal.”

Randi looked deep into Fred’s eyes. He started tearing up. She placed her hand on the back of his head and nestled it on her shoulder.

There, face pressed against the only woman he ever loved, he freed himself. For an hour, he just wept quietly into her collarbone.

And she sat, petting his hair and gently scratching his neck and telling him from time to time that it was okay.

“Is it alright if I stay with you for a while, Randi?” Fred asked, face still buried in her collarbone, soaking it wet.

Randi kissed him on the top of his head.

“As long as you need, sugar.” She whispered. “Just as long as you need, okay?”

“It's funny how, when things seem the darkest, moments of beauty present themselves in the most unexpected places.”

-Karen Marie Moning